The Dating Game or Déjà vu for Two
by Avenged97
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock and John have resumed their normal routine after "The Fall" and the media has receeded considerably. However, when a small case escalates into something much larger, the pair find that they are more involved than they believe. Someone is hunting down John's old regiment and the former army doctor and Sherlock are caught off guard and in the crosshairs.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**_**_:_**_** I do not own the title Sherlock or any of the characters, places, or objects associated with it. All rights to BBC and other respective companies and or persons.**_

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Chapter 1

The ebony sky hung low over the landscape. The wind blew heavily throughout the night, howling and biting like an animal that could only exist in the darkness of the late hours. Concrete structures groaned in the powerful gusts. Dim streetlights flickered, flooding the concrete pathways in an odd rusted light. The alabaster form of the urban city suddenly interrupted the black sky. The traffic lights flashed angry colors onto the blackened pavement; the headlights of cars bleached the dark silhouettes of the pedestrians in their wake and the lustrous energy of the department stores swallowed the traffic on the streets, taking in the shuffling bodies in staggering quantities. Even then, more and more of the population flowed out of the buildings and stores. Bodies pushed against bodies. Shoulders ground together. High heels and metal boots and plastic soles trampled over the rough concrete pathways that compiled the crisscrossing streets of central London.

A small skirmish appeared abruptly in the crowd, interrupting the city's natural flow.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" A feminine voice cried out. A tanned hand stretched out in an apologetic manner slightly brushing the clothed shoulder of her accidental assailant. As if in a futile and unnecessary attempt to balance her as well, the man performed the same action, though his movement was rushed and slightly unnatural.

"It's fine", he consoled the woman he had unintentionally collided with on one of London's crowded sidewalks. " You're obviously a tourist here."

The woman gave him a queer glance, shuffling away from her invader as if he had assaulted her with a deadly weapon instead of just the hard bone of his shoulder.

The man offered her a wolfish smile; noting her suitcase and passport as well as her flabbergasted and somewhat disturbed expression. It was a pity really. He had expected at least a tinge of appreciation, maybe even to go so far as to expect curiosity. Either way, he shrugged his thin shoulders and continued on his way. Weaving through the heavy-footed traffic, the man tediously arrived at his destination. He threw open the glossy black door, his woolen pea coat flapping gracefully behind his advancing frame, and, without casting a glance back at the urban landscape of London, he slammed the door on the hollow chimes of Big Ben.

"Sherlock!"

Mrs. Hudson staggered out of her flat, donning her usual attire. She flitted about, straining her neck to watch one of her only tenants advance at a fretfully fast pace up the stairs. His long stride allowed him to consume the rough steps in pairs, though he still managed to keep his gait smooth and undisturbed.

Fiddling with her apron, Mrs. Hudson shook her head in exhaustion, still studying her tenant's advancing form.

"Sherlock!"

The footsteps and ancient sounding creaks ceased. An annoyed scoff resonated from down the thin staircase. Heavy boots ground against the rough wood of the aging stairs. After several more terrible complaints from the woodwork, Mrs. Hudson's tenant appeared on the second to last step, his expression compensating for his lack of voice. His eyes were open wide and his black brows were raised as if he were expecting something from her. His posture resembled that of someone with a great deal of patience. His overall expression would say otherwise.

"You have a date tomorrow, Mrs. Hudson? Who's the lucky man?"

The question was genuine but the tenant had managed to slip just a tinge of sarcasm and utter disturbance into his tone. It shook Mrs. Hudson to her soft and patient core.

He was always causing trouble. No one else had to deal with rowdy, relentless, and all together merciless tenants. Albeit, they were considered by the habitual society to be, if she would dare say, normal, Mrs. Hudson would categorize her tenant in an entirely different category.

Sherlock may have seemed normal to outsiders as he sidled his way around London, but the moment the detective opened his mouth, individuals were all too keen to discover the tall and slim detective's ruse. His companion John would fall under the category labeled as the norm; Sherlock was anything but.

She didn't know what to think of him and his so called hobbies. It was only the goodwill and hard kept patience of his flat mate, John that kept Sherlock from all together doing something outlandish and utterly illegal. And with the little leverage that John provided, Sherlock still managed to misbehave on several considerable occasions.

Mrs. Hudson was returned to her conscious self as she heard the unmistakable tapping of Sherlock's scuffed dress shoe against the step. He had become uninterested in her presence, instead choosing to study the patterned wallpaper that decorated most of the building. As she fiddled with the wrinkled cloth of her apron, twisting the thin fabric around her delicate fingertips, She noticed Sherlock registering the movement, his bright blue eyes compulsively squinting, the action causing his weathered brow to furrow.

"Oh, what was it this time, Sherlock?" She restlessly played with her curls, watching as Sherlock made note of the motion yet again.

Odd behavior was like a bone to Sherlock and he was a hound, in every sense of the word.

"You were fretting, Mrs. Hudson, playing with everything in sight as a way to distract your subconscious from thinking about your future outing with whomever you take romantic interest in. The way that you play with your apron and hair; you're doing it to appeal to your sense of nervousness and urgency." He smiled. "He must have caught more than just your usual attention."

"Sherlock!"

He was taking obvious delight in the lecture. John would accuse him of showing off again. She smirked, feeling a growing sense of pride in her tenant's abilities. She had, of course, handed him yet another juicy bone, marrow and all.

"There's no need to worry, though." He explained, resorting to studying the patterns on the wall to alleviate his boredom with the subject. "Every one does it."

He turned, anticipating the long advance up the stairs to the decaying door of his flat. However, he twisted back, playing with the cuffs of the shirt that was being held prisoner under the heavy body of his coat. "Everyone except me, of course."

He twisted, only to repeat the action once more.

"Would that be all now, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh," She threw her hands in the air, noticing that Sherlock's deductions had caught her off guard and distracted her from her main priority. " Just don't slam the door, Sherlock. It's not nice."

Sherlock uttered some combination of a chuckle and a scoff. Mrs. Hudson couldn't discern between the two but before she could comment on the matter Sherlock was gone with another horrifying slam of his door.

Mrs. Hudson threw her hands in the air, once more, dismissing Sherlock's rebellious behavior. She made the tedious decision to follow Sherlock's advance up the stairs, entering into the hound's living quarters.

"You'll have to forgive his brooding, Mrs. Hudson. He's restless. We haven't had an interesting case in weeks."

Sherlock's flat mate sat comfortably in one of the Victorian armchairs positioned in the large common room. His bulky, black computer lay, purring, in his lap. Apparently, the lack of cases had affected him as well. His usually bright blue eyes were distant and bloodshot. A tight fist was pressed against his lips and his forehead was paying homage to several creases.

"If I couldn't handle his behavior I wouldn't have put up with it this long, Dr. Watson."

The doctor only offered a meager grunt as a response. He had some kind of intimate connection with his computer at the moment; he seemed to be studying it with an intense curiosity.

Sherlock suddenly appeared in the room. He held a steaming cup of tea while supporting himself on the wooden archway. He'd discarded his shoes rather quickly and Mrs. Hudson figured that he was harboring an intense longing for his silk robe and dressing gown. She decided she'd be better off not overstaying her welcome.

"John has an intimate outing tomorrow as well, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock smirked. He somehow always anticipated when he was about to strike a nerve. He strolled casually behind John's resting place, leaning back to study the doctor's laptop. "You all should go out together; you and . . . _Imogene_. That might be the oddest name you've collected so far, my honorable Doctor Watson."

"Sherlock, do you not even have a _tinge_ of respect for people's personal lives?" John shut his laptop in a bout of annoyance, staring as angrily as he could in his flat mates general direction.

"Really now, Sherlock. Dr. Watson wouldn't want to pair up with the likes of me. I'm so old and fragile." Mrs. Hudson cut in, fretting with her hair again.

"Oh, don't beat down on yourself, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure you have a ton of fun on your outings."

Dr. Watson's comment caused a flush of red to adorn her cheeks. He always loved to pick people off the ground. Sherlock, however, was intolerable when it came to supporting people. He'd outlive anyone trying to insult them time and time, again. As John had always said, Sherlock always craved the last word.

"Oh yes." Sherlock said, sipping his tea ceremoniously. " I'm sure that the designer perfume your wearing will drive him mad."

He smiled, eyeing Mrs. Hudson's disconcerted expression with immense pleasure.

John gawked at Sherlock in disbelief.

"Oh, please, Dr. Watson. It's obviously a mere stab at humor. Mrs. Hudson is completely capable of handling my animosity."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, donning a faint smile on her flushed face. John was able to study their connection for just a sparse moment in time. He had been aware that Sherlock had been Mrs. Hudson's tenant for some time. What he hadn't been aware of was that their connection ran much deeper than he had formerly believed. This was the most saturation of feeling that John had felt between them in a long while.

"Well then, if that's all the torture that I'll have to endure tonight, I'll be off." Mrs. Hudson scurried off, shutting the door to the flat softly behind her, leaving Sherlock and John alone.

"That was something." John commented.

Sherlock didn't respond. He sipped his tea, sauntering into his room, only to return without the cup and donning his usual bedtime attire.

"Not really," Sherlock humbly threw himself onto the couch, facing toward John in an odd, somewhat exasperated manner. His black curls were somewhat knotted and his blue eyes were shut in a pensive manner. He brought his palms up in the stereotypical prayer posture, pressing his fingers against his pursed lips.

"I'm sure you're familiar with odd relationships and connections. Everyone has connections with everyone else. People see but they just don't choose-"

"To observe," John finished his sentence for him. He nodded, reminiscing about Sherlock's former cases.

"How's the dating game going?" Sherlock smiled as John noticed his obvious attempts at hitting a heartstring or, quite more possibly, a nerve.

John, tucking his bulky laptop under his arm, proceeded into his bedroom, offering only a curt goodnight before shutting the door. Sherlock merely smiled. John was always an unlimited resource for a bit of humor.

The next morning Sherlock awoke to the succulent smell of sizzling bacon. He rolled over on the soft cushions of the couch, catching only a glimpse of John's bare feet scurrying around the kitchen floor, before rolling back over with a moan, burying his face in the cushions.

"Sherlock!"

The scent grew stronger, suggesting that John had drawn nearer with the savory substance. Sherlock grumbled, throwing his robe over his body in a disgruntled manner. He wasn't going to be lured out of sleep so easily.

"Sherlock. It's nearly ten. I need to get to work and _you_", John grunted in a feeble effort to pry the blanket off Sherlock's slumbering form, "need to get up!"

His attempts were futile at best and resulted in Sherlock rolling, in the lumbering fashion of a crocodile, into the exposed blanket, wrapping his form even tighter in the knitted fabric and prying the excess leverage out of John's straining hands.

John scoffed, throwing his hands in the air in a mute surrender.

"Fine!" He muttered, angrily, "But you have no right to complain about being bored when all of your potential cases are passing you by because you sleep all day!"

Just as John was about to make his last, and most desperate, attempt to pull Sherlock off the couch, the detective sat up in an angry manner and, grabbing John's plate of bacon and his rolled up newspaper, made his way into the kitchen.

John heard a purposeful huff as Sherlock sat down at the table, clearing off some of his experiments to make room for the crisp pages of the London Times strewn across the table's surface. He was still donning his crocheted blanket around his body when John came in to compensate for the meal that Sherlock had so easily stolen.

He stood over Sherlock, examining the detective's paper.

"Sherlock, are you reading the obituaries?" He exclaimed, using the distraction as a chance to steal a piece of crisp bacon off of Sherlock's plate. He popped it playfully into his mouth, making a show of outdoing his flat mate in a rare instance.

Sherlock merely pretended not to notice John's impeding reach, instead he flipped up the paper, flattening the crisp pages of the paper as to aid John's point of view.

"Yes, John. I am reading the obituaries. If there's any hint of murder, it will be in here."

"How can you possibly determine if someone's been murdered by reading their obituary? The writers don't include that in their columns."

"As much as I would enjoy it if they did, I'm looking for missing facts. It's in the details, John. The details!" Sherlock slapped the paper in a bout of enthusiasm, bending down closer as if he could pick up the very scent of something fishy in the printed column of words.

John didn't make an attempt to understand Sherlock's diluted ways of finding potential cases. Grabbing his coat off the rack, he finished brushing his teeth and grooming himself before finally setting off to work, leaving Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, still enraptured with the disappointing tales of the dead.

Work was excruciatingly monotonous with hardly any interesting patients calling for the clinic's services. There was a small child who'd been bit by his dog, a women who'd scraped up her forelimbs surprisingly well while trimming her rose bushes; nothing out of the ordinary.

However, John did have _something_ to look forward to. The famous Imogene, the woman John had been courting for a matter of weeks now, was the receptionist at the desk and had an abundance of potential and was extremely charismatic in John's taste. He somehow saw this relationship turning out much better than the others. He felt a spark of hope, possibly an arousing feeling of desire. It was nice to be around her, all in all. She made work very interesting. Especially since she was a new recruit. John had been helping her along; mostly aiding her in the memorization of clients and staff in the habitually small work area. She'd been fairing rather well, though she was suffering from a severe case of shyness; a symptom that the clinic didn't have a known cure for.

After the clinic hours were finished, John collected his coat from the rack and coolly sauntered over to the receptionist desk, waiting patiently on the other side of the marble countertop.

"Hello there, John" Imogene smiled, turning to see John leaning against the polished countertop. "Any interesting cases, today?"

John had a habit of sharing his adventures with Sherlock in the office. Despite the horrors of working with a high-functioning sociopath, John found that his adventures were renowned by many. Especially since Sherlock had been ousted out of the shadows of their usual environment and thrust into the spotlight of the media, many people would question John on the most recent scandal, the most horrifying murder, even if a simple individual went missing someone found a way to hound John for answers. He'd learned to deal with the attention that came with his habit of moonlighting and he actually found that many more people were interested in the gory deeds of criminals than one would expect. Even some of the timid women in the clinic would occasionally pop in for a question.

John bit his lip, remembering Sherlock in his heated morning routine, bent over the paper, his nose nearly touching the printed ink, trying to decipher some clue from the obituaries. John could see why Donovan and Anderson pegged Sherlock as a future troublemaker. When Sherlock was emaciated and looking for a crime to solve, he would do anything to alleviate his starvation, such as resorting to taking apart newsprint word by word.

"Nothing has come up recently. Sherlock has his eye out for trouble though." John smiled, still conjuring up mental images of Sherlock snooping about in the varying landscapes of London. "He's looking. He's always looking."

John shivered as he realized how ominous he had just sounded. Imogene didn't seem to mind, though. She propped herself up on her elbows, her glossy fingernails delicately cupping her rosy cheek.

"It's so interesting how you can just sniff out a clue and then weave it back into a crime. It's like some intricate web!" She exclaimed.

John felt himself grow red, nervously scratching the hairs on the back of his neck that tended to stand up when he was nervous or felt threatened. He'd discovered several of his body's secret antics that it used to deal with fear after meeting Sherlock. The hair on his neck would stand up, his military training kicked in, and the wound where he had been shot during the war would tingle as if it too could remember the adrenaline of the battlefield. John, in the bleakest of moments, craved the rush of power that the army had so dearly supplied him with. Maybe he had only been a doctor, but he loved it so. Sherlock was his drug and John was Sherlock's way of abstaining from such substances.

"Gosh, it's getting late! Look how long we've been sitting here, chatting away."

John was pulled out of his reveries by the sight of the blonde haired receptionist, twirling her locks and now donning her heavy coat.

Her head was cocked in curiosity and patience. John continued to look ahead, smiling nervously.

"Did you need something?" Imogene questioned.

"I just thought . . . Since we work together y'know . . ." He stumbled for words, his cheeks flushing red until the receptionist thrust a piece of paper into his palm.

"Here" She explained, "call me tonight. We can make dinner plans."

John stood in awe as she made her way to the front of the clinic, resting her palms against the door handle.

"Goodbye, John." She twiddled her fingers at him, obviously admiring how easily she had gotten under his skin.

John simply waved, still rooted to the spot.

When he returned to the flat, Sherlock was pacing the wooden floor in a frantic tizzy, his phone pressed to his ear as if it were a lifeline.

"No, no, no! Lestrade, why can't you see it? It's right there in front of you, _just look_!" Sherlock threw his hands in the air, his face contorted into an angry snarl as he snapped at Lestrade through the phone. "What do you mean you don't see anything? She was strangled wasn't she?" He continued to pace, clutching his forehead in obvious displeasure. Finally, he turned sharply upon his heel and gave an exasperated sigh. "Dear god, just put me on speaker phone or put Molly on the line!"

John ventured into the kitchen after setting down his coat and bypassing a very angry Sherlock who failed to notice his presence. The newspaper from earlier that morning lay flattened out on the kitchen table and John could clearly see from only a few feet away that Sherlock had completely taken apart one of the articles bit by bit, circling sections, marking others out, and writing questions off to the side. John sighed heavily. From his vantage point, he could also see that Sherlock had penned in giant red letters next to a picture of a young woman, "murdered".


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Sherlock you couldn't have possibly deduced that this women was murdered just by reading her obituary. I've told you before and I'll tell you again, it just isn't possible."

John hobbled along in the frigid morning air as he desperately attempted to keep up with Sherlock's incredible pace. Sherlock shrugged off John's comment, knowing the doctor would never fully understand his intricate deductions.

He continued on his way, forcing John to walk at a faster pace. "You know how I work, John. You're the closest that anyone's come to understanding my methods. I come up with theories, I test them, and when it's all over, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock suddenly stopped; turning to face a huffing and red faced John. "And you also know, John, that I am _never_ wrong."

John nodded his head, still breathing heavily, his long gasps producing clouds of white swirling mist in the frigid air. "Of course," He responded.

Sherlock stood dormant a bit longer before picking up his fast pace again. "Come on, John! We're almost there!"

John looked on in frustration, having just caught his breath as Sherlock took off down the crowded streets of London once more.

They arrived at the morgue to find Molly, Lestrade, and Anderson crowded around the body of a young woman. She was pale, her body respectfully covered with a sterilized sheet, and her auburn colored hair was splayed out behind her in a whimsical fashion. She might have been considered beautiful, if she wasn't dead.

"Ugh, why did you bring Anderson, Inspector? I can easily explain to your simple minds what happened here without his incredulous input." Sherlock groaned as he pushed through the doors of the morgue.

"Anderson made the original autopsy, Sherlock. We need him here."

"It's obvious he made the first autopsy, Lestrade."

"And just how can you tell?" Anderson butted in, testing Sherlock's wits.

"Because it was _wrong_." Sherlock said bluntly, shoving past Anderson to get a closer look at the body. After a quiet moment of inspection, he called for Molly. The woman eagerly pranced to his side, nervously fiddling with the clipboard she held tightly in her hands. She opened her mouth to greet the tall, dark haired detective, but was stopped short by Sherlock's gloved hand.

"Don't talk Molly. We don't have time for talking. Talking is useless and Anderson will only lower the IQ of the entire room." Sherlock stole a quick glance at Anderson who was leaning against one of the metal examination tables. The polished white walls and floors of the room made the forensic scientist seem a bit paler than he usually was, but the lighting above only darkened his already clouded expression. And this only lightened Sherlock's amused façade, the detective taking obvious delight in Anderson's displeasure. He only took a moment to bask in his victory before he turned back to Molly who was waiting patiently for his instructions.

"I need you to tell me the date and time of death, how you all believed she died, and if you found anything out of the ordinary in the autopsy." Sherlock rolled the thin blue sheet back away from the curving body, his eyes taking in every detail immediately as Molly began to supply him with information.

"Her name is Denise Hughes. She's been a heavy drinker ever since her husband died. The police found her in her apartment, on the ground and passed out, with an empty bottle of scotch. Nothing abnormal in the autopsy, just all the regular symptoms but,"

Sherlock's head snapped away from the body, hungry for the information that Molly was about to supply. In his eyes, John could see that he was already preparing himself to make a brilliant deduction, he was prepared to make some under the table connection about how else this women could have died. John could see the wheels turning under Sherlock's mass of black curls, his brain steaming along like a train.

"She's a member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, I know that's John's regiment, and before she died, the police reported that she called out for someone named Angel?"

John raised his head, staring at the body with a look of profoundness while Molly looked up with an expression that matched Sherlock's clueless one.

"Excuse me," John sidled into the small space between Molly and Sherlock to examine the body from a closer perspective, "what did you say her name was?"

"Denise Hughes."

"Do you know her?" Sherlock asked as he studied John's wavering form. The former army doctor's brow was furrowed in an expression of intense concentration, as if he were trying to recall memories that he had long forgotten, memories that he had sealed off and thrown away the key to. His piercing blue eyes took in every curve of the deceased woman lying before him, yet his expression never fluctuated into one of recognition.

"No," he finally shook his head after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "no, I don't think so."

"The police couldn't explain the outburst prior to her death. They said that she was most likely delirious from the alcohol."

Sherlock nodded, processing the information and examining it in his complicated mind, searching for any connections.

"Do the police know what type of alcohol she consumed? How much or how fast?" John questioned, now obviously showing more interest in the deceased woman in front of him.

The sound of crisp pages crinkling and rubbing against one another filled the morgue as Molly frantically flipped through police reports and autopsy records. There was a minute or two of silence until Molly tapped one of the pages with a painted fingernail.

"Ah, here it is!" She shuffled around to get closer to Sherlock, tipping the clipboard as to let them have a more perceptible view of the information scribbled furiously down on the page.

"The police report states that she had consumed several glasses of wine while the autopsy showed that she had also consumed two or three shots of whiskey prior to her death at St. Bart's hospital."

"And?" Sherlock inquired, peering at the paper over Molly's bony shoulders.

Molly stuttered, shifting her weight consciously from side to side, staring at Sherlock as if he'd be so generous as to provide her with an answer to his own question.

"Well," he snapped, "is there anything else?"

"No, I'm sorry that's all there is." Molly presented the clipboard to Sherlock, showing him the scribbled notes on the lines paper and all the evidence listed that the police had acquired. "There's nothing else." She assured him.

Sherlock wagged a bony finger at Molly. Hotheaded and eager for a chance to come up with a deduction, he scolded his hosts. "There's always something else, Molly. There is always something more! You just don't choose to see it!"

"Why do you even need Sherlock on this case?" John butted in. He suddenly felt himself wriggling under the gaze of Detective Inspector Lestrade and company. "What? It's a perfectly normal case." He grumbled, gesturing at the women's body laying on the cold, metal surface if the table. "It's just an unfortunate young women who happened to drink too much and screamed something completely irrelevant before she died. She's got a history of service over seas, you really need a motive for that?" He looked around the room with a slightly peeved expression, as if he couldn't grasp the obvious concept that no one present except he and the dead woman were familiar with the stress of adjusting to civilian life after several years on the battlefield.

"Hey," Lestrade snapped, obviously a bit perturbed at John's ability to silence everyone in the room, especially Sherlock. "He's the one who dragged me out of the office for this mess!" He gestured at Sherlock and then turned to the young women lying on the examination table. Despite her sharp facial features, she did look a bit disheveled, her eyes sunken in and her hair weaving in and out behind her head.

John shrugged; she was, of course, dead.

"Well then, Sherlock." John gave Sherlock a bit of a verbal push, trying to hint that their time was limited and that they were beginning to wear out their welcome. "Get on with it then."

"Oh, yes." It was obvious how much Sherlock was itching to show off his wit. Everyone who had previous encounters with Sherlock, even outside the police tape of a crime scene, could see the sparkle in the detective's eye and the way that he bounced on his toes, pulling on a pair of latex gloves to all but leap on the body of this young and disorderly woman.

Sherlock's company managed to wait patiently as the detective ran up and down the body of the cadaver, examining her eyes, mouth, feeling her throat and hands. He seemed to linger over her face, focusing most of his time on her mouth and other facial features.

"Here" He suddenly snapped, still leaning over the cadaver's face. "I know it for sure, now. She didn't die of alcohol poisoning!"

Sherlock held open the woman's mouth as Lestrade and John inspected his discovery.

"What is it?" Lestrade questioned.

"There's no sign of vomit in her airway." John answered, taking a moment to look at Sherlock for approval before turning to face the rest of the group.

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed, obviously satisfied by his flat mate's quick deduction work. Living with one of London's best detectives had done very well for John. Not only had it extended the stamina of John's patience, the former army doctor had also managed to critique his observatory skills as well.

Lestrade stared at Sherlock and John in turn, his expression mirroring one of great confusion.

"When an individual dies of alcohol poisoning it's usually due to asphyxiation. They pass out, vomit, and choke on it due to their unconscious state. But, she doesn't have any vomit in her airway, so that means that asphyxiation is out of the question since their aren't any marks around her throat to suggest that she was physically choked by something or someone," John glanced at Sherlock, allowing the detective to explain the rest of his deductions and to take the floor.

"But, we found traces of vomit next to the body." Lestrade crossed his arms, obviously stooped.

Sherlock scoffed at Lestrade's stupidity. "She may have vomited Lestrade but that's not what killed her!"

"Then, how do you explain the alcohol in her system? She obviously drank enough to base the autopsy on alcohol poisoning." Anderson butted in from his position by the examination table.

"Anderson do, please, try to refrain from talking." Sherlock demanded with an all too cool of a smile. "It puts me off."

Then, turning to face John, he asked, "Would you like to explain?"

John looked a bit tense, licking his lips as he worked out Sherlock's deduction in his head.

"Well, alcohol is the basis for decay in most flesh. So-"

Sherlock nodded for John to continue.

"So, the doctor performing the autopsy would have found lots of alcohol in the woman, seeing as it's a part of the natural cycle of decay."

"But, how can you know that the doctor's made a mistake? They know where to take the reading, they're professionals, of course."

"But, of course, you should know, Anderson, that the usual place that they take the sample from is the eye. Are there any pinpricks in the eye? Not from what I can see. Is there a pinprick on the body? Yes, in her elbow, just over the vein. The wound is fresh and since I don't think that this woman would be giving blood, seeing as she's just a normal AB from her records, I deduce that the doctor obviously made a novice mistake and took the reading from her flesh and not her eye." Sherlock explained, his annoyance obvious in the tone of his voice. The detective loved to show off his deductive skills, however, sometimes his superb knowledge became a burden when surrounded by so many _ordinary _personages.

"So, if she didn't die from alcohol. What killed her?" John asked.

Sherlock threw his hands in the air, finally surrendering to his audience. "Well, how would I know that? Somebody do some tests or something. Maybe it was poison? Maybe she fell and had eternal bleeding?" He started toward the door, a large grin spreading over his face. " Maybe all the cigarettes that she smoked finally caught up with her! I mean, look at her fingernails, they're stained with tobacco."

"And just where do you think you're going?" Lestrade called out after him.

"What? You've got yourself a case, there. Go on and find out what killed her. I'm sure it'll be a thrill. I'd love to hear about it when you're done."

"You're not staying?

"Oh no, I'm very busy. I've got loads of other things to do."

"Sherlock!"

Lestrade turned desperately to John as Sherlock pushed through the door, leaving a heavy tension in the morgue. John took a few steps to follow him, and then turned back, realizing that Lestrade was still hanging on to the end of the conversation.

"What?" John shrugged, feeling the pressure fall upon his shoulders," I can't control him. Call Mycroft if you really want him on the case. I can't help his habit of running off."

John pushed through the heavy metal doors of the morgue and ran after his flat mate, somewhat elated that he finally escaped the heavy tension that his flat mate had originally created in the examination room. He really shouldn't have felt great about leaving Lestrade clinging onto a limb, but what could he do. Sherlock did, of course, have a great and incredibly opulent mind. However, the detective hadn't the slightest idea how to contain it.

"You want Lestrade to ask you to take the case, don't you?" John asked after falling into step with Sherlock.

The detective shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Sherlock kept walking, turning his coat collar up against the wind.

"Well, it's either that or you simply don't want to work with Anderson."

John's theory caused a thin smile to grow on Sherlock's face and, after a moment, the detective awarded his partner with a deep chuckle.

"You are clever, John. Very clever."

"You do know that Lestrade will force you to take the case if he fails to find a solution."

"When-" Sherlock abruptly corrected John.

"Excuse me?"

"_When_ he fails to find a solution. There's no doubt about it, the case is too premature, too fresh. There's not enough solid evidence to come up with a motive or a killer, and even I'm stumbling a bit."

"The great Sherlock Holmes _baffled_! The case must be unsolvable." John mocked, eyeing Sherlock. This was payment for his bad temperament in the flat.

"Please, do spare me, John. Lestrade will call soon. What else could he do? Call my brother? Make him force me to take the case?"

John chuckled as the pair finally reached the door leading to their flat. If, or when (according to Sherlock), Lestrade called, John had no doubt that the detective would be merciless in his sagacious remarks.

Days had passed by, after Sherlock's impromptu display of witty caricature in the morgue, John could tell that the detective was already battling a hunger for more mysteries to sink his teeth into. Aside from experimenting with the unusual in the flat's small kitchen, Sherlock was lost in a state of either deep pensive thought or utter monotony. If the routine of lying on the couch and scouring the several police reports posted on the web or settling down for a long endeavor into some of the most intricate works of literature known to man (While it took some individuals months to read expansive novels such as War and Peace or Machiavelli's "The Prince", Sherlock devoured them in a matter of hours. He found them both rather dull) were to abruptly cease to be sufficient methods of distracting himself from the tangible world, John decided that the apartment would simply implode and that he would attempt to make a daring escapade if the circumstances ever came to arise. Despite John's attempts at convincing his flat mate to leave his humble abode in order to buy a meal at the nearby café or to simply get some air, Sherlock was rooted to the idea that his despondency would be suffered inside, and inside only. Every attempt John had made ended futilely, especially since the doctor had refused to participate in a game of Cluedo with the detective. But, how would the detective expect someone as ordinary as him to compete with his massive intellect. The detective also usually forgot, or deleted, the fact that his flat mate had an _actual _job to show up to and perform during the week.

John felt terrible for abandoning Sherlock at the flat for hours at a time, but his long shifts at the clinics were beginning to tie a knot around his hands. Besides the constant bombardment of patients coming in with small, uninteresting afflictions, Imogene seemed to have taken interest in John's adventures, constantly poking or prodding him for a good story.

"He somehow thinks that, in the game of Cluedo, there's a way for the victim to have done it!" John complained later that afternoon, leaning against the marble counter as Imogene grabbed her coat and packed her bags. "With such a great knack for deduction, you think that he would have figured out that that's one of the few reasons why I won't play with him any longer."

"One of the few?" She questioned eagerly with her coat draped over one shoulder. "You mean there's more?"

"You have no idea."

As the pair slipped out onto the busy streets, John found her arm wound around his, her sleek figure just inches from his own, tougher build.

"I was thinking about those dinner plans," she blushed as she tried to throw the subject in front of them as nonchalantly as possible, "I think I'd like to go out together sometime soon."

John stiffened, now acutely aware of her arms on his, the pads of her fingers softly caressing his weathered skin.

"I'd like that." He relaxed, taking the time to enjoy her warmth and fragrance while it lasted. She only lived a few blocks from the small hospital where they were both employed, so the commute to and from her humble abode was rather short; a bit _too_ short for John, who met her in the mornings, sometimes accommodating her with a small token of friendship in the form of hot coffee or a breakfast sandwich, and walked her home as well.

"John?" Imogene turned to face the mesmerized doctor in front of her flat. "I think I'd like to meet Sherlock, as well. He sounds," she paused and John could tell she was trying to think of a suitable word that wouldn't sound like an insult, "interesting." She finally finished.

"Well," John cleared his throat, taking a moment to study the minuscule amount of rough pavement between their feet, "I'm sure we can work something out." He smirked, sliding his fingers down to grasp Imogene's tender palms. "He likes to show off and a new face might just lift his spirits."

Imogene smiled, quickly pecking John on his cheek. "That's great, John. Thank you so much."

"Have a good night, Imogene."

Sherlock was still awake when John returned to the flat. Stretched out along the spacious couch, the detective had taken up his normal position, his head of twisted black curls resting on a pillow and his hands placed together in a stereotypical prayer stance while he rested his bony fingers on his pursed lips. His eyes were closed, however, when John walked in Sherlock immediately took in every detail of his flat mate's form.

"You're really still walking her home?" He asked gracefully.

"How?" John still continued to be bewildered by his flat mate's deduction skills, despite having lived with him for at least three years.

"They're doing construction on Blandford Street. If you'd changed your commute there would have been dust from the jackhammer on your shoes. Since there's a lack of that, and a glaring blotch of red lipstick on your cheek _again_, I can only assume that you're continuing to walk your girlfriend home, which I then deduce that you're trying to make a good impression and seem like a gentlemen, but really John, you've gone through this exact same routine with every woman that you've been with. Just make the first move, already!"

"And how did you know that the dust from the jackhammer would've blown onto my shoes?" John questioned, hoping that he'd trip up the detective for once.

Sherlock sighed. "Don't be dull, John. There's a flag right outside and I've been forced to watch tons of telly since Lestrade refuses to call me with a case. The weather channel runs in a constant loop from 9-5."

"Has Lestrade said at all, how the investigation is going?"

"Of course not. I've been bored out of my mind!" Sherlock rose hastily from the couch, wrapping his robe around his thinning frame. "Nothing ever happens in this place."

Only ten minutes had passed before the sound of sirens could be heard wailing their way down Baker Street.

Sherlock's thick lips turned up in an almost villainous grin.

"_Sherlock_," John quickly scolded him, though the detective was already heading for his room, the sound of clothes being thrown around the room resounding throughout the flat.

Sometimes, the detective took too much delight in murder.

Lestrade was waiting patiently outside when Sherlock and John emerged onto the street. The road was still dotted with cars and cabs, their headlights glaring brightly in the late hours of the night.

"There's been another one?"

A curt nod from Lestrade confirmed Sherlock's ambitions. Hailing a cab, Sherlock and John followed closely behind Lestrade's police car, its bright sirens tinting the blackened landscape of London odd, neon colors. The various structures that made up the vast city of London flew by. Sherlock was increasingly conscience of the fact that their troop was escaping farther and farther out of the general area of the tainted, bustling city and farther and farther into the desolate countryside. The rain thrummed heavily on the cab's outer extremities and the constant rhythm gave Sherlock's conscience something to grasp hold of as he delved deep into his knowledge, attempting to decipher just where Lestrade was leading them.

The area surrounding them was drenched in fresh rain, and the cab's headlights reflected fiercely off a wide, winding trail of water, traversing its way throughout the countryside. The footing was fiercely thick with dark mud, rising up to layer Sherlock's dress shoes with a new, glossy black coat, as he stepped out of the cover of the cab and into the pounding rain. The crime scene was easily identifiable by the fluorescent yellow tape and the cluster of flashing police cars. From his position, the detective could easily discern a number of flashlight beams bobbing this way and that while others stayed stationary and swept the surrounding area in wide lazy swoops.

After John had paid the cab fare, adding in a few extra euros and an apology about the thick mud, the pair ducked under the crime scene tape and followed Lestrade into the scene of the crime.

They stopped by something that looked like it had once resembled something of a pit. However, the steady downfall of rain had reduced it to a pile of black, squelching mud that looked as if it would suck up anything unfortunate enough to fall near its three-foot radius. In the darkness of the night, Sherlock couldn't see any material that had fallen prey to the sinkhole, however, after Lestrade retrieved a flashlight from a nearby officer and shone it into the pit, he heard John suck in a breath of frigid nocturnal air.

The additional light revealed a mangled pile of mud, grass, and flesh. The surrounding men could barely discern a bony elbow, a pair of skinny legs splayed out under a thin torso, and a twisted façade resting gently on a once beautiful face, now splattered with mud and gore.

"What happened here?"

John was the first individual to break the putrid silence with a long time cliché question. The doctor seemed to distance himself from the victim, as if he were still coming to terms with the idea that someone could be so vicious.

"A local was out walking their dog along the river bank," Lestrade explained, "They said they were just a few miles out when the dog began to go crazy, barking and whining and pulling at the leash and such. The dog got loose, ran to where we are now, and dug up this poor girl that's laying in front of us now. We think that most of he scratches on the girl's body came from the dog, after he dug her up." The detective inspector paused for a moment as if he regretted the words he had just let slip from his mouth. His brooding eyes scanned the body for a brief moment. He suddenly jerked his head up almost like he'd forgotten about his equally disturbed companions.

He continued his explanation from before, "Anyway, the man immediately called the police after his dog had uncovered most of the body. We've been here for a couple hours at the most, searching the area to see if the killer discarded any weapons in the area or if there were any other bodies buried in the surrounding ground."

"And?" Sherlock questioned.

"Nothing. No weapons, not a single fingerprint or footprint, and no other bodies in the area. It's as if this woman walked here herself."

"Well, that's definitely out of the question, seeing as she's _dead_."

Sherlock stooped to the ground, running two thin, gloved fingers through the surrounding muck. Examining it closely, he frowned.

"There's no blood here." He stated.

"That's why we called you in. There's no trace of blood anywhere at the sight, there's no weapon, and no bruising around the esophagus that would suggest that her killer strangled her."

"Is there anyway that someone might have smothered her, with a pillow, maybe? It wouldn't leave a sign, but you wouldn't know for sure until you examined the lungs for any foreign agents." John suggested from his position by Sherlock's crouched figure.

"Like cotton fibers, excellent thought John." The detective nodded, obviously racking off several causes of death in his head. He leaned forward and parted the women's thin lips.

John frowned as he watched Sherlock run a finger over the victim's teeth and gums.

"There aren't any pieces of fabric or feathers stuck in her teeth or in between her gums but, as John suggested, there could still be micro fibers in her lungs." He rose, stripping off the tainted gloves and showing them deep in his pockets. "And she's filthy. We might find some clues under all this muck back at the lab."

Lestrade crossed his arms, taking another moment to briefly run his gaze over the women's body, stretched out and mangled in the pile of mud. The rain had settled to a steady drizzle, leaving the night uncomfortably cold and stiffer than the corpse lying in front of them. He abruptly turned to face John.

"John, this woman was another member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"What?" John asked, staring dumbfounded at Lestrade.

"We have reason to believe that someone is targeting former members of your regiment which, unfortunately, makes you a target as well. Now, I'll let you stay-"

"Wait, hold on." John shook his head, his face harboring an expression of disbelief. "Do you mean to tell me that someone is targeting my former regiment?"

"Yes, that's what I just said."

"How? Why- Why would someone be killing former members of my regiment? Why?" John thrust a finger at the corpse lying in the mud as rain poured down over the body.

"I'm sorry, John. I don't know. But, that puts you on their hit list, which means that you're in danger. Now, I'm going to let you stay with Sherlock since I trust you to have a good sense of whether or not you're in trouble, but," The detective inspector shook a gloved finger at John, "If the situation gets any worse, I'm going to have to house you a Scotland Yard for your protection."

"Fine, okay. I just want to find who's doing this."

"I'll have Molly call as soon as we run the body through the lab."

Sherlock, overhearing the conversation, nodded and, bidding the detective inspector adieu, headed toward the edge of the crime scene, holding up the dripping fluorescent tape for John to pass under before heading toward the road.

"Does it have any other connection to the previous murder? I mean, they were both members of my regiment, but, is there anything else that links them other than that fact?"

John asked, breaking the intense silence that had fallen upon the cab. The doctor slouched back into the embrace of the plastic cushioning of the seat while Sherlock's thin frame, outlined by the silver nocturnal light that seeped into the cab every so often, sat rigid as he glared out the cab's window, obviously trying to deduce something about the case.

John sighed, rolling his thumb and index finger over the non-existent wound on his foreleg. The physical injury on his shoulder had long since healed and his psychosomatic limp was a vexation of the past, however, John found that when he walked or ran for an extensive period of time, the insubstantial scar where the glistening copper bullet had ripped through the muscles in his appendage throbbed as if it possessed a consciousness and was reminiscing of the truculent battle field that John was overjoyed to have left in the past. Work always tired him, though Imogene acted as a silver lining to the sometimes-dreadful cloud of scrapes, bruises, and sneezes that funneled into the clinic. Walking her home was always a joy and the precious fifteen minutes that John was able to spend with Imogene were some of the best, but most anyone would do when he was holed up with Sherlock most days. And then there was the walk back to the flat and the detour that he was forced to take due to the construction surrounding the area around Baker Street. He fingered the fabric covering his thigh again. He most certainly had gotten in an extensive amount of walking for today.

"Sherlock?"

John decided that he would rather listen to the detective's complex speculations about the recent murders than let himself be pulled into archaic reveries and possibly suffer nightmares in the later hours.

"No, John. They aren't connected by anything else." Sherlock answered flatly, still facing out the window. "Why so close together, though? They have so many contrasts but the time frame is similar."

John tipped his head back, listening to the detective ramble on. He knew it helped him to think out loud, though he'd likely have to give the cabby an extra tip for suffering through the utter monotony of Sherlock's deductions. It was no doubt that the detective was brilliant in his area of expertise. But, any one who lacked pre-exposure to Sherlock's wit seemed to get thoroughly lost in the twists and turns of the detectives audible thought patterns.

"One victim was found in her usual abode, her home. A place where she belonged. The other was found in a pit on the very outskirts of London. Different locations, but they were both killed under odd circumstances. The first victim died from alcohol poisoning, though she didn't exhibit signs of being a heavy drinker, she had no reason to be. The other showed no signs of struggle, no bruising around the trachea that would indicate that she was throttled, and no evidence or tracks leading to the scene of the crime, as if she simply wondered there and sank into the ground herself."

"Well, maybe we should retrace our footsteps." John proposed. "Maybe we missed something?"

Sherlock faced John, his face screwed up in an expression of displeasure. "I don't miss clues, John. I can't afford to miss clues."

John shook off Sherlock's impending rage. "Well, maybe you did, just this once."

Sherlock answered with a strong huff, leaning back into the seat. A long, insufferable silence fell upon the cab. The familiar landscape of downtown London soared past the cab's windows and all too soon the driver turned down the familiar corner of Baker Street, rolling to a halt in front of the red awning hanging over Speedy's cafe. The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle, leaving London under a heavy blanket of dark gray clouds.

The electronic clock flared a scarlet ten o'clock at the couple as they entered the flat and traipsed their way to their respective rooms. They convened in the flat's common room and were surprised to find Mrs. Hudson fretting about the flat.

"You, boys!" She pointed an accusing finger at the pair as they emerged from their rooms. "Which one of you tracked this dreadful mud all over the flat? It's scattered all through the hallway _and_ up the stairs!"

"Very nice tracking skills, Mrs. Hudson. I'm very impressed." Sherlock dropped into the embrace of his familiar armchair. "Now, from the size and make of the shoe can you deduce just which one of us it was?" He smirked at her with a devilish glare.

"Sherlock." John scolded the detective, his words harboring a bit more venom than he intended. "We're sorry about the mess, Mrs. Hudson. We'll clean it up right away."

"The maid is coming tomorrow, John, dearie. You got lucky this time." She shuffled toward the door. Before leaving, she swiftly turned upon the couple once again. "This is coming out of your rent, Sherlock." She wagged a nagging finger at the detective before disappearing, leaving only the sound of the creaking stairs in her wake.

John sighed, grasping his hips harshly and glaring at Sherlock even more repulsively.

The detective seemed to feel the growing tension being directed at his hunched figure. He looked up, catching John's displeasure.

"What?" He shrugged his shoulders.

"You are," John sucked in a breath, searching for the proper word, "impossible."

"Thank you." Sherlock said bluntly.

John held back an irritated sigh.

"I have work off tomorrow. We might as well learn as much as we can about this first victim, Denise." John glanced at Sherlock, giving him a moment to oppose to the idea if he wanted to. Only silence followed John's proposal.

"So", he continued," we'll go down to the station and talk to Lestrade. Maybe he'll give us a lead or two." A contemptuous humph was the only response. John held back a sigh, leaving his flat mate lounging on the plush couch, his eyes closed and his hands clasped together and resting on his pursed lips. The doctor was hoping to find sleep just around the corner, but as he closed his eyes, his hopes faded with the sound of a bow being drawn across the tight strings of a high-pitched instrument.

The doctor rolled over, burying his face in his plush pillows. "Sherlock . . ."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The next morning it seemed the altercation had been swept under the ornate rug that decorated the flat's common room. John woke to find Sherlock dressed and ready, a rare sight on Baker Street, and was milling about the kitchen, dining on a few scraps of food in order to circumvent any peckish symptoms throughout the day.

John quickly dressed and groomed himself and entered the kitchen. He managed to uncover the original obituary of the victim, though it was buried under Sherlock's scientific paraphernalia that had all but consumed the table. Examining it closely, he carefully read and reread the column, trying to decipher the original text that had been mutilated by a storm of scarlet ink and bacon grease.

He cleared his throat, "So this woman wasn't a learned drunkard, yet the original autopsy suggested that she died of alcohol poisoning. Would someone be so depressed as to drink themselves to death?" John ran his fingers through his hair, knowing that his next few words could be easily misinterpreted. "I mean, if you were stressed from adjusting to civilian life and you'd just lost your husband, if you did choose to end your life, aren't there quicker methods?"

Silence proceeded. "Sherlock?"

"You know more about sentiment than I do," came a harsh reply.

"You're better at exposing people's private affairs." John was just as quick to lash out at the detective, hinting at his previous digressions into John's personal life.

Sherlock's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing, taking in every inch of his friend, as if he were sizing him up for a fight. He remembered their brawl, not too long ago, in one of the backstreets of London. John had quickly overpowered him, possibly due to the fact that he _wanted_ the doctor to punch him, though his military expertise certainly gave him a good advantage. His eyes fled down to John's leg, specifically his left knee. Despite his military experience, he also sustained significant scars from the battlefield. Most were minute; white patches of skin, crisscrossing over his arms, his chest, and a long thin puckered scar that ran from just down his collar bone and ended on his tricep. The detective knew that the doctor's limp had been psychosomatic, but the bullet that ripped through his shoulder was very real, and if a fight were to commence, Sherlock had prior knowledge of the doctor's weak point. It would hardly be an honorable blow, but it'd still be considered fair.

Sherlock continued his assessment of John, finally halting his elaborate deductions when he found John's smoldering gaze. He caught a glimpse of flames in his eyes, a deep, violent emotion that caused him to doubt himself. Sentiment surely was a disadvantage, but rage, that fiery passion that seemed to be coursing through John's visibly pulsing veins, could be very effective, even deadly, if coaxed out for the right reasons. Sherlock noted his intellectual findings and straightened himself just as Mrs. Hudson came through the door. It was obvious that she could feel the tension in the kitchen, as she stopped her usual, fretful gate to examine both her tenants with a worried expression, possibly expecting them to throw themselves at one another like cats, or even more likely, hounds, snarling at one another over intellectual and emotional borders.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson." John was the first to break the icy silence that had descended upon the room.

"Well, I hope it's a good morning for you all. I can hear you from all the way downstairs, having a row with one another like that; it's not good for you."

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson." John stole a glance at Sherlock, who had suddenly become enraptured with the late victim's obituary that he had read, annotated, and most likely memorized a thousand times before. "We're just trying to find a lead on a rough case, that's all."

"Oh, the poor dear." Mrs. Hudson fretted with her apron, studying the picture of Denise Hughes in the newspaper that lay flattened in front of Sherlock. "She does look awfully nice. It's such a shame." She abruptly turned on Sherlock. "You'll find who killed her, won't you, dearie?"

A few moments of silence passed before he replied. "Yes, of course." The detective nodded, his voice a bit softer than usual. "We'll find the murderer."

John met Sherlock's gaze, catching his implication of their teamwork. It was the most apologetic John had seen Sherlock in a while, ever since he degraded Molly at their Christmas Party and had made up for it with a peck on the cheek.

"Right then," the detective clapped his gloved hands together, obviously perturbed by the growing amount of sentiment in the room, "We're off to catch a killer!" He ceremoniously glided to the door and held it open expectantly for his flat mate.

John held back a sigh of contentment, trying, unsuccessfully, to hide the grin on his face, and accepted Sherlock's gesture of kindness by sidling past his friends figure and hopping through the open door and down the stairs. Once on the street, the pair quickly caught a taxi and pointed the cabbie in the direction of Scotland Yard. The streets of London passed by in their normal blur of neon traffic lights, black pavement, and pedestrians. Scotland Yard was as crowded as ever for a workday and John and Sherlock found it near impossible to weave their way throughout the fluctuating mass of rumpled business coats, brass buttons and badges, and copper coffee stains encroaching upon the white fabric of several shirts and papers.

Lestrade was lost in another mass of completely different individuals when Sherlock and John found him. There were several boom mikes and cameras trained on the detective inspector, each one pushing closer and closer, surrounding their victim. Lestrade looked extremely uncomfortable. As the couple neared, they could hear several inquiries being thrown towards the very flushed Inspector.

"What's your opinion on these serial killings?"

"Is that what they are-serial killings?"

"Do you have any idea who committed these assaults?"

"Is it true that you've enlisted the help of Sherlock Holmes, the cyber detective?"

Just as the last question left the reporters mouth, Sherlock and John shoved through the thick wooden door of Lestrade's office. At first, the mass of murder hungry media hardly took notice of the detective's presence. Their invisibility only lasted for a moment, of course. One man turned, then a woman, then a camera with its glossy frame twisting and zooming in toward the pair as they waited patiently in the door way. John flinched as the mob shifted, their emaciated eyes gleaming as they caught sight of another juicy meal dripping with new perspective and a new story.

A chorus of shrill "Sherlock's" broke out and the advancing press consumed Holmes and his companion. Sherlock winced as camera bulbs flashed. Microphones were thrust toward him, most of them barely hitting his chest due to his advantage in height.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock grunted as he pushed past a short, round man in a pinstripe suit holding a microphone. "I need to talk to you." A camera swinging dangerously close to his head momentarily interrupted his advance. "Can someone get these _people_," he spat the word people out as if it were venom, "out of here?"

Lestrade shook his head in obvious frustration, waving his arms at the crowd, trying to prod them out of the room like the herd of cattle that they were.

If only he had a cattle prod.

Several officers assisted in showing the mass of media out. But, of course, the movement only spurred several more questions.

"Sherlock, do you consider yourself a recluse?"

"John Watson, what is it like living with the world's greatest detective?"

"Are you taking orders from Sherlock Holmes now, Lestrade?"

The receiving side only offered a chorus of scoffs, mostly emanating from Sherlock and Lestrade. After the press had been herded out, the trio retreated back into Lestrade's office.

Sherlock noted an immense amount of paperwork strewn about the detective inspector's desk. The desk's surface was hardly visible. There were several crumbs distributed throughout the room, though the origin, a donut box and its contents, had been discarded long ago. Apparently, the janitors at Scotland Yard were off doing other business, as the detective noted that they certainly hadn't swept Lestrade's office in weeks.

"What do you want Sherlock? Can't you see I've got my hands full?" Lestrade almost fell into his rolling chair, and gestured at the forest of paperwork on the desk.

"We're here because of Denise Hughes, the woman that you found murdered in her apartment flat, we want access to the crime scene to find the evidence that your team overlooked." Sherlock stated bluntly.

"Denise Hughes case is practically closed. She died of alcohol poisoning."

"No, she didn't! I already pointed out the mistake that the mortician made at the morgue. He took the sample from the wrong place! There's all kinds of alcohol in the system after death; its part of the degenerative process."

"Yeah, the mortician went back, did an exam on the women's alcohol blood level. It was off the charts. She died of alcohol poisoning, Sherlock, she doesn't count as one of the serial killings."

"Well, it doesn't count as a serial killing if there's only one victim-" Sherlock shortened his sentence abruptly, noticing an unfamiliar gleam in Lestrade's weary eyes. "Has there been another one?"

Lestrade suddenly dug out a manila file from the monstrous pile on his desk. Several papers fluttered to the ground upon its removal. The whole pile of debris shifted, threatening to collapse and consume the entire office.

John winced, steadying the pile while trying to see over Sherlock's thin shoulder.

"Clive Stohl," Sherlock spoke aloud, allowing John to hear the information in the file, " collapsed at his home yesterday. He displayed symptoms of hyperthermia including nausea, vomiting, hostility, and eventually organ failure which was believed to be the cause of death." Sherlock thrust the file at John to take a glance at, "How does this relate to the girl that we found out on the country side? They're not at all related; the man died of hyperthermia."

Lestrade appeared from behind the paper mountain on his desk. "It's not hot enough outside for heat stroke, the man wasn't wearing anything that would have suffocated him, and he didn't have any damage any where on or in his body. The only aspect that connects them is that they're both from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

John suddenly sat down in the chair in front of Lestrade's desk. Both Sherlock and Lestrade heard him moan something into his hands.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Clive Stohl," John repeated, running his fingers through his hair and looking suddenly pensive. "I knew _him_. He was a soldier. I treated him once on the battlefield. After that we kept in touch for a while until I was shipped out due to my injury. I didn't know that he'd come back." The doctor caressed his temples with his fingers. "Look," John laid the file on his lap, "I'm a retired army doctor and this case here seems pretty medical heavy, Why don't I focus on this case while Sherlock attempts to dig up anything on the case involving Denise Hughes."

"I told you already, the case involving Denise Hughes is closed. It's a dead end."

"Lestrade, please," John pleaded, "If you think it's a dead end, just let Sherlock have a crack at it. If he doesn't find anything, then you were right; the poor girl just died of alcohol poisoning. If not, Sherlock gets to solve yet another murder. Would it hurt you that much just to let him poke around a closed crime scene?"

Lestrade sat pensive for a moment, staring out the large glass windows of his office. It was obvious that he was thinking about the ravage reporters that had just occupied the room.

"Fine," the detective inspector finally gave in, digging out yet another manila file from the pit of his desk and handing it to an eager Sherlock, "here's the file on Denise Hughes. If you find anything, I want to know about it, got that, Sherlock?"

"Crystal clear, Detective Inspector." Sherlock mumbled, his nose already buried in the contents of the file on Denise Hughes.

"The same goes for you, Watson. If you find anything, you report it back to me."

John nodded, thanking Lestrade for his time, and hurried after Sherlock who somehow still managed to cover an unconceivable amount of ground with his attention still enraptured in the manila file covering his face.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Having escaped the tense environment of Scotland Yard, Sherlock and John parted ways, one hailing a taxi and the other falling in step with the several pedestrians that populated London.

The address of Clive Stohl was written in the file and was surprisingly closer to the police station than John had expected. He had only navigated four blocks or so before he stumbled upon the residential area that Clive had been living in at the time of his death. The neighborhood was full of several expensive looking Victorian-style housing units that sat upon lush, green, rolling hills. John felt extremely out of place walking along the richer streets of London. Several of the houses had lustful accommodations; pool houses double the size of their flat, four car garages, shining metallic painted Cadillac's perched at the top of long, sloping driveways that looked down onto the street.

John was well winded after he had managed to scale the long driveway that led to Stohl's living quarters. He found that he only had to knock once on the giant oak doors that extended far beyond his head before his presence was detected by the massive guard dog that lay on the other side of the entrance. Half the neighborhood knew that Stohl had a visitor. There was a pounding against the wooden frame of the entrance as the large dog threw itself against the double doors. John stepped back, coming to appreciate the door's massiveness. A voice sounded from inside, calling the animal off of its reign of terror and away from the entrance of the house. The wide doors swung open and, much to John's surprise, the blonde head of a petite young woman popped outside and locked eyes with the doctor who was waiting patiently at a safe distance.

"Hello, what can I do for you?" Her voice was soft and gentle, as if the slightest gust of wind would carry it away.

John realized that he was staring, a bit too late of course. He shook off the daze that had fallen upon him and quickly apologized. "I'm, uh, John Watson. I'm helping Detective Inspector Lestrade on a few cases, including the death of Clive Stohl."

The woman nodded, opening the door a bit wider for the doctor and inviting him into her home. She ushered him in and quickly led him to an extremely lavish sitting room.

"I'm Sarah Stohl, Clive's wife. I already explained all that I know to Detective Inspector Lestrade and his team when they were here yesterday, but, please, ask anything that you like, and I'll try and answer to the best of my ability." She explained after fetching John a saucer of freshly brewed tea.

John nodded his head, quickly offering his condolences to her. "I'm very sorry for your loss. I knew Clive quite well, actually. I was a member of his regiment during the war."

"Oh, yes! Clive often spoke about his regiment, The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He fought in Afghanistan for several years before he returned home and married me."

John could tell that Sarah was pleased to be hosting a family friend. He knew it was hard for individuals to understand the stress of leaving the battlefield, the sudden absence of violence left a tingling sensation in one's mind. It was like having gallons of adrenaline continually pumped into your system for years and then suddenly running out of the substance. A doctor in the army had to stay on constant alert, functioning on minute hours of sleep, trying to save lives when theirs was surrounded in total chaos. A retired army doctor had no reason to be on constant alert. His medical expertise was hardly ever required and, in the rare occurrence where they could be put to work, it was often for something irrational, such as a scrape of the knee, a bruised wrist, a sprained ankle. Injuries that were nothing compare to the wounds that were collected on the battlefield.

John sat himself down in a plush and very comfortable armchair. He took a moment to take in the alabaster carpet, free of any stains or discolorations, the gleaming red walls that reflected the natural light that seeped through the large windows of to his right. A chandelier towered above his head. "Um, I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry," John stated, his eyes still taking in every detail of the Stohl's luxurious home, "but how did Clive Stohl come to afford all of this?" He gestured to their surroundings. "I don't believe that this is all covered by Stohl's army pension?"

"No, it's not." Sarah took a seat in front of John. "After the war and after he settled in, Clive was employed as a lawyer. He apparently studied law before he enlisted. Now, he's left most of his possessions to me and Griffin."

John nodded in understanding, scribbling a few short notes down on a wrinkled notepad that he'd borrowed from Lestrade's office. He let a few moments pass, to become acquainted with Sarah and to give her a few moments to prepare herself, before he began to question her about her late husband.

"Did Clive show any signs of post-traumatic stress? Did he have any problems at home or at work?"

Sarah bit her lip, a few pieces of thin blonde hair escaping from behind her ear and falling in front of her face, casting an eerie shadow over her already dark brown eyes. "Yes, Clive had trouble adjusting to a civilian life-style. Though, it was nothing that particularly hindered him. I'm afraid that he mostly had trouble dealing with our son, our only son."

"I'm sorry?" John unconsciously leaned forward, coming to sit on the edge of the couch.

"Our son, Griffin, has a chronic disease, Schizophrenia. Clive always had trouble coping with the different personas that Griffin often saw. When Griffin was younger, Clive bought him those little green plastic army men that they sell at the toy stores. He told Griffin how it was to fight in the war and played with him. He thought it was harmless; he left out the horrific parts, the gruesome injuries that he saw and received himself. But, later on, Griffin started telling us about the army men, how he could hear them shouting and fighting. We thought he was just pretending until he started lashing out at school and he wouldn't talk to us at home."

"W-what do you mean 'lashing out'?"

"He would get angry over little things that we tried to do like trying to give him a bath or making him brush his teeth in the morning and after meals. His teachers called, telling us that he wasn't completing his homework. His grades dropped and we finally pulled him out of school when he tackled one of the boys in his class on the playground."

John nodded, knowing that he could never fully understand the stress of putting up with a child who had a serious disorder like Schizophrenia. Sherlock was hard to handle by himself and he wasn't even diagnosed with an illness.

"So, Clive was having a hard time dealing with Griffin. Was there anything that particularly made him cross?"

Sarah sighed, "The night before Clive passed, he hosted a sort of reunion party for members of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Clive wasn't much of a drinker, but that night we served cocktails, wine, and gin and tonic from our bar in the basement. Clive seemed really happy to have the group back together and the party lasted a bit longer than we'd thought. Griffin got a bit upset at the extra company in the house, especially when we had said that the party wouldn't last over nine and they stayed well past ten o'clock."

"So, Griffin had an episode." John finished the story for her.

Sarah nodded, explaining that Griffin had thrown a tantrum right in front of Clive's dinner party. "He was so embarrassed. I don't think that he ever got over it."

"The night that Clive died, the night after the dinner party. Can you tell me any more about that?" John inquired, careful to not push her any more than he needed to.

"As I said, Clive was a bit embarrassed about Griffin's episode. He told me that he had a heavy load of work that night and that he was going to spend an extra couple of hours in his home office. I checked on him every once in a while until I thought that I might become a nuisance. He wasn't working as much as he was drinking." Sarah paused in a brief moment of silence and brought a shaky fist up to her pursed lips. "I didn't think that he would drink enough to kill himself!" She choked back a wild storm of sobs.

John quietly handed her a fistful of tissues from the tissue box sitting on the coffee table.

"My husband did not commit suicide. He couldn't have drunk himself to death! He wasn't like that!" Sarah's voice broke, her face twisted into a furious snarl. "He was a soldier."

John took one of Sarah's hands while she dabbed her eyes with the crumpled tissue held firmly in the other. She shook in distress and John could tell that it wouldn't be wise to push her for any more answers. He stayed with her a bit longer, offering his condolences and then, thanking her for her time, he promptly made his way to the door.

On the other side of London, Sherlock had busied himself picking apart the flat that belonged to Denise Hughes. He'd had a quick exchange of words with the landlord before being allowed to enter into her flat. He'd claimed that nothing had been moved since her death. He'd also claimed to have heard nothing about the great detective and was extremely obstinate to not let Sherlock step foot in her flat. That, of course, had quickly changed after Sherlock deduced the man's age, his smoking habit, and his other habit of sleeping around with the cleaners. His clothes reeked of ammonia, a common substance found in cleaning supplies. And since the man was hardly considerate enough to shave the monstrous amount of unappealing gray stubble from his fatty jowls, Sherlock hardly thought that the man washed his clothes with any intense fabric cleaner due to the grease stains on his shirt from the meals that he constantly ordered out.

In the flat, Sherlock found that Denise was almost as orderly as he was. It almost seemed as if Denise had purposefully cleaned the flat until it shined, as if she knew she was going to die and wanted to leave her flat spotless for the several policemen and detectives that would have later paraded through the door.

The only mess was the crime scene that Lestrade had so generously left intact for Sherlock. Fluorescent yellow crime tape crisscrossed the entrance to the flat, forcing Sherlock to duck under the obstacle in order to get a better view of the room. There were evidence cards left all over the apartment; one on the counter where a wine bottle opener lay abandoned along with a cork, one by two wine glasses sitting on a coffee table. There was another one by an actual bottle of wine that looked as if most of its contents had been emptied, as there was only a little left in the bottom of the decorated bottle. Finally, Sherlock carefully stepped around a card that was placed next to an awful looking, and even more terrible smelling, stain that had been left on the carpet, leading Lestrade to believe that Denise had vomited around the time of her death.

He walked throughout the flat, finding all of the rooms were spotless excluding the sitting room and the kitchen. He meandered back to the scene of the crime and tried to imagine the situation from the facts that he gathered by assessing the state of the room.

Denise would have been sitting in the dark brown leather chair to the right of the table, as it was sagging, having lost most of its fluff due to its excessive use. The chair on the left side of the room was almost identical; though it showed almost no signs of wear. The wine bottled was almost empty of its contents, which prompted Sherlock to believe that Denise drank the entire thing by herself. He ran his fingers through his hair, obviously cross that the crime scene was leaning more toward Lestrade's assumption that the victim died of alcohol poisoning. He stared at the bottle of wine and then proceeded to glare at the two wine glasses positioned on the coffee table, as if they would scream out some sort of clue.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly went wide. There were _two_ wine glasses. Denise didn't drink all the wine by herself. She had company the night that she died!

He quickly ran over to the kitchen and found that there were reddish stains, almost like blood, dotting the inside of the sink, around the drain. Someone had poured the remainder of the wine down the drain.

A smirk appeared on Sherlock's face. There was something in the wine; something in the wine had killed Denise Hughes.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Lestrade! I know what killed Denise Hughes and I'm fairly sure that it killed the girl that we found in the countryside as well." Sherlock nearly danced into Lestrade's office, he was so ecstatic. There had been a break in the case; just one tiny crack. But, soon, the entire façade would shatter into several little intricate pieces.

John and Lestrade sat together in the Detective Inspector's office, obviously waiting for the detective to come swooping in with all the answers. The mountain of paperwork, once closely resembling Mount Everest, had succeeded to a mere pile, now looking a bit like Mount Rushmore, the top of the pile decorated with the faces of several wanted civilians.

"You found our killer?" John inquired, looking up at Sherlock with a hopeful expression from his position in the armchair opposite of Lestrade.

"No, not exactly." Sherlock explained.

"Did you find our killer or not?" Lestrade inquired, obviously a bit peeved at the rate at which his case was unraveling.

"I didn't find the killer. But I found the murder weapon. Denise had been drinking on the night of her death, but it wasn't the alcohol that killed her. Her wine was laced with something; some kind of drug."

"Do you have any evidence?"

"There were two wine glasses at the crime scene! Denise had company over the night that she died! The murderer was there, it was someone that Denise knew well or was comfortable enough with to let into her home and have a drink with. Whoever it was laced Denise's wine and then poured the rest out in the sink. Then, they put the bottle back to make it look as if she drank it all by herself. She got drunk enough to puke but not to kill herself!"

Lestrade gave Sherlock an incredulous stare. "The woman that we found out in the country side choked on her own vomit. She had alcohol in her system as well."

"The same as Denise. Someone could have laced her drink as well!"

"Clive, the man that you found dead in his home. His wife claimed that he'd been drinking as well." John chimed in, obviously knowing how eager Sherlock was to find a connection between their three victims.

"Okay. So, all three victims were returning or retired veterans, all three were part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and all three were drinking the night that they were found dead. That's great but that still doesn't explain how the woman we found in the countryside, Mia Crowden, got to where she was. There was only one set of footprints. She couldn't have walked all the way there and then just laid down and died."

Sherlock collapsed into the chair, next to John. He picked thoughtfully at his lip. "Car keys," he stated bluntly.

"What?"

"Mia Crowden, the woman in the countryside, did she have any car keys?" Sherlock shook his open palms at Lestrade.

Lestrade shook his head, an action that contradicted the smile that had appeared on his face. He had caught on to Sherlock's trail of logic.

"The murderer drove her there. Mia might have already been drunk, but she was small and petite. She wouldn't have been that hard to carry and dump where we found her."

"What about tracks returning back to the car?"

"Face it, Lestrade. There were hundreds of tracks left by your men, and that man that met you by the road. You probably thought that they were his."

Lestrade rose out of his chair, accepting Sherlock's evidence. "Fine, We'll perform autopsies on the bodies and check for drugs."

"Good!" Sherlock turned and advanced toward the door, only to turn back with a swirl of his overcoat and lean on the doorframe. A large smile had suddenly taken up residence on his face. "We've finally got a lead!" The detective found it almost impossible to contain his excitement. This one meager case that he had carefully cultivated had now sprouted into a massive quandary. He, once again, took on the likeness of a hound, though this time he had his nose to the ground, following an ever-widening trail to his prize.

Lestrade shook his head, knowing that if Anderson or Donovan had been on call to witness the scene, they would have greatly disapproved. He could only begin to imagine the sneering remarks that they would make. Personally, the Detective Inspector would rather watch the great Sherlock Holmes twirl in giddy circles and perform cartwheels over a murder than have to stage a fake drugs bust in order to get him on a case, though the action of blackmailing Sherlock only encouraged the detective to rub his success harder into the slack jawed faces of the police department when he wrapped up yet another mystery.

After another few intricate theories involving the whereabouts and possible motives of the murderer, John and Sherlock rose to leave. In the frigid nocturnal air of London, Sherlock's excitement seemed to die down a bit, especially after he noticed that John had spent most of the meeting mum and sitting in a chair, only speaking out when he was spoken to or when he thought any information that he'd gathered was relevant.

"Are you okay?' Sherlock asked, having already sat halfway through an agonizingly silent cab ride back to Baker Street.

"Yeah. Of course, I'm okay." John wriggled in his seat, casting a quick glance at Sherlock and then turning to stare out the cab window, one hand propping up his head and the other subconsciously rubbing his leg.

Sherlock cleared his throat, noting John's discomfort. "I-I know it's probably a little late, but," his eyes swept the shadowed interior of the car, as if he were afraid of someone hearing what he was about to say, "I'm sorry about everyone- your mates in the fusiliers- I'm sorry about their, well, being murdered. That's, uh, it's quite tragic." He heard John exhale sharply, almost uttering something between a laugh and a scoff. The army doctor twisted in his seat, now staring, unperturbed, into his friend's eyes.

"A second a go, you were twirling 'round in circles because the few remaining members, who aren't still deployed in Afghanistan, are dead."

"Sometimes, I forget, John."

"Forget what?"

"I try not to think about the fact that the people I work with, the people that I constantly have to stand over and inspect, have families and friends, and real jobs and . . . _real_ lives." Sherlock's lips curled into a vicious snarl, his voice taking on a sound of jealousy.

John eyed his companion suspiciously. "So, what makes them different from you? Like, you don't have all those things."

Sherlock turned to peer at John with a fixed stare, their eyes seeming to catch on one another. John's pursed lips rounded in a perfect and silent, "oh".

Something seemed to pass between the two men as it had before in similar instances. It had passed between during their first cab ride. It had flooded out of John when Sherlock had spotted him from the emergency vehicle, loitering near the fluorescent border of the crime scene. It had thrust them together once again as they stood facing each other in the dusty graveyard near Baskerville. Something built inside the cab, filling every unoccupied corner of the cab, fleeing into the atmosphere, and spilling out from their opposing forms. There was a certain tension in the air, and yet, it wasn't tension that was building between Sherlock and John.

It was understanding, and, in an instant, the emotion had passed just as silently as it had arrived.

"Do you mind if I bring Imogene over tonight?" John broke the silence that had settled upon them.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the thought of a guest at Baker Street.

"She really wants to meet you."

"Does she?"

"Yeah, she thinks you're some super detective, leaping off buildings and tackling serial killers and solving murders all up and down the streets of London."

"Leaping off buildings?" Sherlock raised a brow at John's attempt at a job description.

"You brought that one down upon yourself." John waved a nagging finger at the detective.

"Well, by all means, let her come witness some of the action." Sherlock scoffed, though it was obvious that he was failing to hide the smirk that was growing on his face.

In the next hour, John was escorting Imogene up the aging staircase of Baker Street and straight into the common room of the flat. He had attempted to clean the entire living area, though he didn't even attempt to cleanse the kitchen table of Sherlock's numerous scientific experiments and he kept a constant reminder to keep Imogene away from the fridge at all costs. He had managed to rid the floor of any case papers and he'd also removed several bloodstains from the intricate rug.

Sherlock had promised to be on his best behavior, though he had immediately given up his crumpling dress shirt and blazer for his more comfortable silk bathrobe, tied over his gray t-shirt and baggy gray pants. He had taken up residence in his usual armchair, sitting with his legs crossed and rapidly typing away on his phone, probably trying to sort through some of his several theories involving the untimely deaths of some of the members of John's regiment. A sonorous laugh resonated up the stairs and floated into the flat, causing Sherlock to look up from his mobile.

John threw open the door and led a tall woman by the hand wearing a thin black dress that flowed behind her as she trailed after John, her red lips curled into a vicious smile. A pair of black, open toed heels clicked on the wooden floorboards and stopped just short of the rug that adorned the floor of the common room.

Sherlock watched intensely, taking in every detail of Imogene, as she, in turn, lazily twirled in a circle and absorbed every corner of the flat. She took her time as if she were trying to take a perfect picture of the room, memorizing the black patterned wallpaper, grinning at the cow skull above the run down desk, overflowing in paperwork, and gawking at the actual humanoid skull that rested above the mantle piece, the hollows of it's eyes illuminated by the glare of the city lights seeping in through the thin curtains of the windows on the far wall. Her eyes swept over every curve, corner, and crevice, and finally settled on the detective, still sitting placidly in his chair, returning her curious stare.

"Sherlock," Her voice was soft but hardly delicate, "how are you?"

"I'm fairing quite well. Thank you," He glanced down at his phone as an excuse to break eye contact with her. He could already tell from the way that she walked and the way that she spoke, that she was different from the other women that John had brought in. She was composed, but knew not to hold her head too high. Her dress implied that she was able to afford luxurious antiquities and that she was sensitive to appearances, though she carried no sense of arrogance in her walk and Sherlock sensed that she had a good idea of who she was and what she wanted. Right now, it seemed that she wanted John, as she sauntered over to him and wrapped her thin arm around his beefier one, allowing him to guide her to the armchair opposite of Sherlock while he pulled out the chair from the desk and took a seat beside them.

"Well, this is grand, isn't it? A nice little gathering in this quaint little flat." Imogene sank back into her seat, making herself at home among the two men and the several stacks of paper and books placed throughout the room. "Just how long have you all been here?"

"I've been here almost three years, while Sherlock has lived here for about five years." John answered, realizing that the probability of Sherlock participating in their small talk was slim. He had taken Imogene to a movie just an hour or so after they'd returned from the case, leaving Sherlock some time to muddle around with whatever thoughts or theories he needed to put to rest. John was hoping that his time spent alone would make the detective more eager to talk, however, it seemed as if Sherlock was going to remain a social recluse for most of the night. Something must have been going through his mind and John knew that if it had anything to do with the case at hand, there was no way that anyone would be able to coax Sherlock out of his mind palace. John couldn't have been more wrong.

In a meager half an hour, Imogene had all but laid siege to Sherlock's palace. She'd dried up the moat, burst through the outer walls, and obliterated the door. Sherlock's castle lay in shambles, but he couldn't have been any more oblivious.

"So, Sherlock." She sunk down into the armchair as she finished pouring herself another glass of wine from the wrapped bottle that she had brought with her. "Tell me about this case that you're working on." John had slipped out for a moment to steal a few ingredients from Mrs. Hudson in order to top off the hors d'oeuvres that he had busied himself with.

Sherlock took a sip of white wine and placed his glass back onto the table that sat between them. "There have been three murders so far and all of the victims were part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, though all of them were either retired or returning from their deployment in Afghanistan, as John was."

"Goodness, that is absolutely awful that someone would do such a thing." She leaned forward in her chair, as if she were expecting a fast deduction to come rolling off Sherlock's tongue at any moment. "And all the victims lack any markings that would suggest that they were throttled or smothered?"

"Yes, that's correct. I have a theory-"

"You think the killer is using a drug and placing it in something that the victims consume?"

Sherlock's glass halted just a few inches from his pursed lips. His eyes, trained on the alcohol contained in the glass in front of him, now trained themselves on the slender figure of Imogene, leaning forward in her chair and smirking at him, as if she knew that she had just grasped a major detail of the case that every individual had missed previously.

"Did John tell you that?"

"Yes and no. John told me all about the case but he didn't mention any theories. It's quite obvious, though, isn't it?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Three victims with no markings on their bodies definitely implies the use of some foreign agent. But, once again, no markings on any of the bodies, so, the murderer couldn't have injected the drug. Therefore, the drug must be able to be administered through consumption, meaning that the chemical must be soluble in either the victim's food or drink."

Sherlock sank back in his chair, suddenly admiring Imogene, not only in a physical sense, but intellectually as well. This woman was clever. She was perfectly capable of getting what she wanted.

"Brilliant."

Imogene turned to find John standing nearby with a silver tray in his hands, garnished with exactly a dozen finger sandwiches. He gawked a moment at Imogene before setting the tray on the table and sinking into the chair. "Absolutely brilliant," he admired his companion from his seat.

"Thank you, John. I must've have picked something up from all the stories that you tell in the office." She smirked, a bit of pride flashing across her face, along with a slight flush of flattery and affection. " I was just thinking that I might be able to help you both sort through some of your theories on what drugs the murderer might be using since I hang 'round the office. I might as well be a doctor with all the conversation that I get to hear. It's such a relief when John comes swooping in with a thrilling mystery instead of some monotone monologue about how many children bit my finger today or whether or not a certain someone is actually following their meal plan."

Sherlock smiled at her obvious distaste for normal conversation. "I've narrowed the list down to just a few common abused drugs. It's most likely Heroin, Methamphetamine, Ketamine, Tiletamine, or PCP."

"Well, you can cross Tiletamine of the list. That drug can only be administered through injection and, unless there's a zoo or a veterinary office nearby, Tiletamine would be a very rare drug to find circulating the city since it's an animal aesthetic." It only took a moment for Imogene to notice the incredulous stares that the two men were issuing her. She shrugged innocently, "I may have wanted to be a veterinarian before I became a tempest."

"Methamphetamine fits all the cases of death except that most people can maintain consciousness long enough to look for help. One of the men died in his home office, right under his wife's nose. I think she would have noticed her husband crying out to her." John chipped in.

"So, now it's down to heroin, ketamine, or PCP."

"PCP isn't very popular these days, is it?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock brought his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on his kneecaps, "but we have to be careful enough to explore all possibilities."

Another hour rolled by as the trio drank wine, dined on finger sandwiches, and discussed the fine topic of murder. Finally, Imogene looked at her watch and gasped in horror.

"Lord, it's almost midnight!"

"It can't be." John scoffed, leaning back in his chair to scrutinize the crimson numbers on the digital clock in the kitchen.

11:40.

"Well, this has certainly been a night, hasn't it boys?" Imogene rose to her feet, smoothing out the thin fabric of her dress as it billowed around her calves.

"I'll walk you out an' wait for a cab with you." John rose to his feet, although quite unsteadily. He swayed back and forth, his eyes rolling in all directions before finally settling on Imogene's slender figure. He took a few steps and stumbled, catching himself on Sherlock's armrest behind him.

Sherlock rose and tenderly placed John in his chair.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were drunk, doctor!" Imogene giggled to herself.

"I'm sorry," John slurred, holding his head in his hands. "I just got dizzy all of the sudden." He stood, cautiously this time, and regained his position next to his companion. "I think I just stood up to quickly. I'm fine now." He stated firmly.

Imogene quickly pecked the doctor on the cheek. "Thank you for the wonderful night, John. I had lots of fun." She turned to Sherlock, who remained lounging in his chair. "Thanks to you as well, Sherlock."

The detective simply nodded, accepting credit where credit was due. "Thank you for the wonderful night, as well, Imogene." He smirked as John, halfway through the door, twisted around in surprise, only to be whipped downstairs by Imogene, holding tightly to his hand. They kissed in the frigid night air, waiting on a cab to pull up to the curb, and then she was gone, whisked away and fading into the background of London's scenery.

On the returning trip, John's head spun as he made the climb up the creaking stairs and back into the common room of the flat. He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. As he sank into the armchair, Sherlock stared at the entryway, now holding the bow to his violin in his hands. "I like her." He stated simply and proceeded to draw his bow across the strings of his violin, the action rewarding him with a sonorous A flat.

John stared at his companion and then the liquor sitting on the coffee table. Maybe he had drunk more than he thought.

The next evening, Sherlock abruptly burst into the flat with his mobile phone pressed to his ear, his woolen trench coat swirling behind him in an exuberant trail of dark cloth.

"-And the drug was in all three of the corpses, you're sure about that?"

John looked up from his position in one of the armchairs. His laptop sat idle on top of his crossed legs. He watched Sherlock begin to pace from one side of the flat to the other, which was an amazing feat in itself seeing as some chemical and other unusual paraphernalia had migrated onto the floor even after John spent hours the night before de-cluttering the ancient wooden boards. Mrs. Hudson would have a fit if she saw the flat in its present state, though, it could have been worse. Sherlock could have shot another smiley face into the wall. John shook his head, remembering the conniption that the next-door neighbor had thrown himself into after finding that several bullets had come barreling through his brand new wallpaper.

"What do you mean you didn't test the alcohol at Denise's flat?!" Sherlock came to a sudden halt. His expression contorted into a look of intense fury.

John leaned over and picked up a glass case that sat on the top shelf of the desk. Inside, there was a metallic black handgun that was displayed on a plastic stand. John made sure the safety was on before hiding it behind a pile of paperwork that was rapidly collecting dust.

"Well, what about the alcohol at Clive's house?"

An annoyed scoff rang throughout the apartment building.

"Then what about fingerprints?" Sherlock sank down into the chair opposite of John, his slender fingers rapidly beating against the rough and aging fabric of the chair. He suddenly thrust his head backwards against the seat, sinking down even further in the chair. Another scoff resonated off the aging walls of the flat. "Of course, of course, they were wearing gloves. Stupid! We're dealing with a serial killer not just any ordinary murderer. Stupid, stupid!" Sherlock regained his composure, straightening his dress jacket under his woolen trench coat. "Just call me back when you have something useful, Lestrade. I'll see what I can dig up on my own."

Normally, John would have tried to hide a smirk as he usually enjoyed seeing Sherlock frustrated and outfoxed during a case. But this mystery was different. This case had become personal and John was suddenly taken aback with the realization that he was in danger. Even as he sat in his chair, he realized with a sickening feeling, that someone could walk into Baker Street, up the stairs, straight into the flat, and do a number on Sherlock and then have their way with him. He looked down at the water that he'd been drinking and pushed it away from him with a rousing suspicion. He would know if someone had drugged him, wouldn't he? At least, if he couldn't, Sherlock could? Couldn't he?

The doctor squirmed uncomfortably and finally swallowed his feelings of self-doubt and suspicion. He had nothing to worry about. Living with the world's greatest detective might have been hell, but it had its advantages at times.

"What's new on the case?" John inquired, trying his best to feign disinterest, though inside he was writhing in the lack of answers and closure. Three people that he knew, or could have known, were dead. Poisoned by some maniacal serial killer who could be anywhere, plotting how to take him down as well.

"Lestrade found traces of PCP in all three of the corpses." Sherlock sunk back into the armchair, ready to give John any information that he needed. He could tell that John was foaming at the mouth for answers, though the stubborn doctor would never be convinced to admit it.

"PCP," John's brow furrowed as he tried to recall any knowledge of PCP. "Phencyclidine, like the anesthetic agent?"

"Yes, PCP is soluble in most anything and it can be taken in almost any way, ingestion or inhalation or even rolled up and smoked like tobacco or marijuana." Sherlock stopped, waiting for any questions, and then continued with his explanation, "Taken in high doses, PCP can be very deadly, John. It's an anesthetic, though it acts like a hallucinogen. In low doses, most people just look and act like they're drunk. But in high doses, people who are sensible can become increasingly violent, individuals who don't usually exhibit interest in social activities become very animated. Basically, it causes behavioral changes and over an amount of time, it can lead to convulsions, asphyxiation on one's vomit, depressed breathing, hyperthermia, all kinds of deadly symptoms."

"So the killer somehow managed to put this drug, this substance called PCP, into all of these people's drinks?"

"Yes, the killer probably favored alcoholic drinks, since alcohol has a tendency to heighten the effects of the drug." Sherlock searched John's face for any kind of remorse or anger. He found nothing.

"Do we have anything to trace back to the killer at all, other than the use of PCP? The report about the very first woman who died, it said that she yelled 'Angel' before she died. Could that be the killer's name?"

"PCP has several street names. One of them is Angel Dust since the drug can cause a feeling of euphoria. Lestrade thinks that that's why Denise cried out 'Angel'. She told them what killed her, not _who_."

"So, we've got nothing." John stated simply, rubbing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair. His voice began to exhibit a hint of trepidation.

"We've got a murder weapon, John. That's better than where we were before." Sherlock found it odd that he was suddenly offering a more positive connotation on things. That was usually John's job.

John nodded. He abruptly rose from his position and made his way toward the door. Grabbing his coat off the rack, he slid his arms through the sleeves in a hurried fashion and threw the door open with a sudden vexation. "I'm going out to get some air."

Sherlock adjusted his position to watch John as he departed, though he offered no refusal. He heard the front door slam. John never slammed the door. It agitated Mrs. Hudson.

After a few moments passed, Sherlock rose and shuffled the window, pulling the thin curtain aside. He watched silently as John departed from the flat and disappeared into the nocturnal current of London.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Another few weeks passed by and neither Lestrade nor Sherlock gained any more ground in the investigation. John knew that, deep down, Sherlock was frustrated and shaken to his core, but the detective continued about his daily routine, which didn't actually involve doing anything apart from sleeping, yelling at the television, and nibbling off the small scraps of food that John would bring home after work.

Imogene visited more frequently, her cherry red smile and her glittering blue eyes becoming more of a common sight in the confines of 221B. The woman's presence seemed to be more uplifting than anyone, even Sherlock, could have imagined. The detective took careful note of the fact that John's dulling blue eyes adopted an unnatural gleam every time that Imogene twirled her way into the flat. She often arrived, adorned in a flowing, but never too suggestive, gown while toting a bottle of champagne or wine. She'd kiss John on his blushing cheeks, leaving a bright red smudge of affection on his weathered skin, before sauntering over to the usually occupied detective and throwing her thin arms around his fragile frame. Sherlock had gotten used to her gestures of affection, though he'd clearly drawn a line in the sand for her to acknowledge and respect. Imogene's soft lips had never caressed the detective's skin on any occasion, but sometimes the flirtatious woman managed to bury her polished fingernails into his mass of black curls and give his bushel of hair a shake before dancing away across the flat. The detective would reward her quick reflexes with a grunt and continue with whatever he was working on at the time. However, sometimes, when neither Imogene nor the doctor were paying attention, Sherlock would sneak a quick glance in the couples direction, taking careful notes on their social development. He's register Imogene sitting gracefully atop the arm of John's cushioned chair, her long legs seductively crossed at the ankle, and her thin fingertips resting gently upon the surface of John's arm. He'd observe, as John's blue irises would glaze over, his dark pupils widening, and his thin, pale lips pulling back to reveal the small glimmer of a grin. And Sherlock would suppress the feeling of a smile tugging at his lips, as well. The knowledge that he wasn't the only individual keeping John safe was agitating and comforting at the same time. He took note of this feeling, as well.

The air around Baker Street grew even more frigid, developing a reputation to deliver a nasty bite to any exposed skin. It rained, it poured, the skies turned a deep and somewhat depressing gray, and, after another month, the first snow of the season finally settled upon London. Within two weeks, the sidewalks were shrouded in a light and fluffy powder and little snowflakes that greatly resembled the cotton balls that Sherlock often clogged the sink with after certain scientific experiments clung to the aging wooden panes of the window. The roar of the snowplows seeped through the thin walls of 221 B and resonated throughout the apartment.

John and Sherlock sat in their respective positions, while Molly and Mrs. Hudson took up residence on the couch and Lestrade leaned on the doorframe, nursing a glass of scotch. Christmas had finally rolled around to 221 B Baker Street. Laughter filled the air as a fire roared in the fireplace under the mantle. John and Sherlock had managed to wrangle a sorry looking Christmas tree into the corner, though it took at least a week to convince Sherlock that the flat was in need of a Christmas tree as he kept "deleting" the fact that the holiday was just around the corner. But, of course, after a chorus of unpleasant "Humbugs" and "Fiddlesticks", Sherlock was tasked with the important duty of placing the shining metallic gold star atop the tree (He was the only individual tall enough to do so).

John sighed, surveying the sight of all of his companions, mingling and laughing and enjoying themselves in the same room. On any other occasion, putting all these individuals in a room together was like trying to mix oil and water or, more realistically, putting two male beta fish in one bowl. Sooner or later, there would be blood in the water. But not on this night. This night was special.

John suddenly felt another hand touching his. He smiled, knowing immediately who his companion was. He turned and kissed her softly on her lips, gently caressing her slender fingers.

"Merry Christmas, John." Imogene took a seat on the arm of John's chair. She handed him a glass of wine as he softly brushed a few stray hairs away from her pale cheek.

John's smirk widened into a smile as he accepted her gift and kissed her once again. He took a moment to admire her petite frame, outlined seductively in a sparkling red cocktail gown. The dress was strapless and a bit shorter than usual, revealing Imogene's bare shoulders and her slender, long legs. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back in long ringlets, the light from the fire making it look as if her hair were made of gold.

"You look absolutely stunning." He breathed.

"Thank you," She grinned, simultaneously running her fingers up John's arm. "I think Sherlock would agree to that." She twisted to find the detective deep in conversation with Molly, though it was obvious that he was rather uncomfortable. "Wouldn't you Sherlock?" Imogene asked aloud.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock glanced over at the pair, a bit thankful for the interruption.

"John says I look '_absolutely stunning_'. She quoted, sauntering past the lanky detective and grabbing a shimmering box from inside her purse. She handed it to the Sherlock, taking up residence in between him and Molly, whose eyes had glazed over with jealousy as she watched Sherlock move closer to Imogene's petite frame, his nose inches from hers as he accepted his sparkling package. "I do believe I could agree with him." He set down the glass of wine he was holding and focused on the package that had been given to him. "You got me a gift," he smiled as he shook the glimmering box, listening for any movement that would give the contents away. He didn't even stop to make a deduction, Molly realized with a sickening horror, before his slim fingers had untied the strings and removed the lid. Sherlock always tried to deduce his presents. He performed the action every time, on every occasion, even when the gift was from someone he harbored sentiment for, like John.

Inside the box, Sherlock pulled out several pieces of crisp white sheet music. "Ah, more music for the violin!" He sorted through the compositions with careful precision, as if he were afraid of damaging them.

"I chose them carefully. They're composers are significant. Can you guess why?" Imogene smiled, loving to test Sherlock's wit.

Sherlock studied the pieces for a brief moment before finally spitting out an intricate deduction. "Well, one is composed by Mozart, whose first name was Wolfgang. While the other is composed by Samuel Adler, a very clear giveaway, Miss Imogene." Sherlock smirked widely at Imogene. "Their composers correspond to our recent cases. Samuel Adler who obviously shares the last name of Miss Irene Adler and is a resident of the U.S, another similarity he now shares with the former dominatrix. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the first syllable of his first name, "Wolf", wrote the other piece. It's a commonly known fact that a wolf is the feral descendent of all modern dogs today. A dog obviously corresponds with out time spent at Baskerville." Sherlock proceeded to place the new compositions onto his music stand with care. "Very clever, Imogene. Thank you very much." The detective sat down again, meeting the gaze of several bewildered guests.

Imogene smiled and caught John's gaze. He sat in his chair, his arms crossed and his eyes shining with amusement.

"What?" She asked, shrugging her shoulders with pride.

"I don't see why you like to encourage him so much."

"I feel bad for him."

"Why would you feel bad for him?"

"He hasn't had any time to show off. He hasn't had any time to work."

"He's been working 'round the clock." John took a long sip of wine, swallowing the alcohol all at once.

"He just hasn't made any progression." She swiftly finished John's thoughts for him, sauntering across the room to regain her position at his side, softly grasping his free hand in hers.

John lowered his head, sighing a bit too loudly. "Can we not talk about this right now?" He lifted his head to stare somberly into her piercing gaze.

"I'm sorry, John."

"No, your fine." He smiled apologetically at her. "You are wonderful." He kissed her, gently tugging at her bottom lip and caressing her cheekbones with his thumb. "You're fantastic."

She smiled and kissed him even harder.

"Hey, lovebirds!" Lestrade's voice interrupted Imogene's fierce assault. "Why don't we move on to something a bit more productive, like opening presents, since you so lovingly gave Sherlock a head start."

John smiled, taking another sip of wine, still grasping Imogene's hand tightly in his own.

The night transpired and the fire, once roaring and sending tongues of light dancing over the walls of the flat, now burned at a dangerously low level, only feeding off one crumbling log. Mrs. Hudson had left to retrieve a few pain pills for her aching hip, while Sherlock rose and fetched a glass of tap water for her.

Lestrade abruptly pulled Sherlock aside, trapping the detective in the kitchen for a brief chat, away from the other guests. The hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck rose as he realized that something serious was on the detective inspector's mind.

"Does it worry you at all that John may be in serious danger?" Lestrade asked Sherlock as he filled a glass with tap water from the sink, purposefully avoiding Lestrade's insidious glare.

"Why would you think that John would be in danger? He can handle himself perfectly fine."

"I'm not worried about John being physically assaulted. Of course, he can handle himself in a fight. But the killer that we're searching for doesn't dispose of people through physical violence, Sherlock. He's killing people by drugging their drinks! And John's out there guzzling down a glass of wine."

"We're all drinking the same poison! If it were drugged we all would be showing symptoms sooner or later." Sherlock stared quizzically at the half empty glass container on the counter, accompanied by a bottle of scotch. He suddenly stared at Lestrade with a look of disbelief. "Is that why you brought your own scotch?!"

"Don't be ridiculous Sherlock." Lestrade furrowed his brow, staring fiercely into Sherlock's disturbingly calm façade. "I just thought we'd take a precaution and keep John down at Scotland Yard, if only for a few days, just until we catch the killer."

"That's insane, Lestrade. It may take another week to catch this killer, maybe another month."

"It might not if we were able to work a little faster."

"You're lucky enough that I found the murder weapon, with as much as you've given me to go on," Sherlock frowned with intense displeasure.

"It's a precaution, Sherlock!" Lestrade whispered intensely as John passed by the archway to collect another present from under the tree. "It's for his protection."

"I can protect John just fine!"

Lestrade followed Sherlock's gaze to the microscope sitting on the table. He could just make out a tiny drop of wine on the slide under the lens.

"You tested the wine for PCP?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

Sherlock smirked villainously. He turned to leave.

"Sherlock, I mean it. I'll give you till New Year's to make some kind of progression towards identifying the killer and ensuring John's safety. If you don't find anything I'm going to take John to Scotland Yard."

"How are you going to convince him to come with you?"

Lestrade shrugged, "I'll say that we're taking him in for questioning. He might be a suspect since he has a connection to all three victims."

Sherlock was almost livid as he came to the sickening realization of how much power Lestrade had over him and his flat mate. The detective was sure that if he showed even the slightest reluctance in trying to house John at Scotland Yard, the detective inspector would take him in with his flat mate, as well, and if he were at Scotland Yard, he would have no chance of finding the killer. The case would go on untouched and John would be in eternal danger.

"Fine." Sherlock spat out the word with frightening intensity. "But, only for a few days, Lestrade, and then I want him back."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's obvious want of John's presence.

"I work better when he's around!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and reluctantly exited the kitchen; having made a deal with Lestrade that John would probably never forgive him for.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock Chapter 7

Sherlock threw his pencil down with such intensity that the utensil broke, with an audible snap, upon contact with the ancient floorboards of 221B. He tussled with his black locks for a brief moment, frowning in distaste as his fingers came back coated with a thin layer of oil. The detective had no recollection of the last time that he'd helped himself to a shower, let alone eaten or relieved himself. After his brief concurrence with Lestrade, he'd immediately thrown himself into his caseworm, mulling over every document that he'd come into possession of. He read and memorized statements and alibi's, annotated and filed away reports, and even studied the photographs of the several individuals that were affiliated with the three victims. Despite many of the photographs only including the upper chest region of the individuals, Sherlock was able to deduce their intentions, personalities, and professions from the creases on their faces, the glint in their eyes, or the soft fabric of their clothes. It hardly mattered that every alibi checked out with the victim's time and place of death, Sherlock knew that none of these individuals were capable of murder and yet, he continued to wok aimlessly toward a solution. Part of the reason for his endless commute, he suspected, was due to his ever-growing sense of pride in his unique skillset. He'd hardly ever taken on a case that he hadn't been able to solve simply by viewing the crime scene. The other part may have been largely due to John's involvement. Sherlock knew this case was personal and it was all too obvious that the lack of answers, and possibly the lack of closure, was beginning to nibble away at John. His usually blithe and carefree gaze had clouded over; the creases in his weathered skin playing host to obvious fatigue. John Watson had taken a new and heavy burden upon his shoulders and Sherlock was desperate to relieve him of it.

Twenty more minutes passed and finally the detective retired to his normal resting place. He sank into the soft confines of his armchair, kicking off his dress shoes, and pulling his long legs up into the seat, resting his chin upon his knees. The thought of the doctor reminded Sherlock that John was due back in only a few minutes or so from the store.

Sherlock quickly whipped out his phone from his jacket pocket and sent a text to John, requesting a package of soft lead, number two pencils.

He leaned back, inhaling deeply. The smell of dust and pinesap and John's cologne seeped into his flared nostrils. He exhaled the interesting mixture of scents in an exasperated sigh. It had been four days since the Christmas tree had been adorned with brightly colored lights and a fire had roared in the confines of the fireplace. Now, the tree sat sulking in the corner, shedding it pointed green needles. The lights were shut off and the twinkling golden star perched crookedly atop the massive remnant of Christmas spirit.

Four days and Sherlock had amassed absolutely nothing. He was keen to focus on Clive Stohl's party, however. Since the cameras at Denise's apartment withheld no evidence and the fact that the second victim had been found lying in a field, a party seemed like the best atmosphere to commit a murder. Parties were always flashy events, with people scattered across one area, if not several. Sherlock deduced that it would have been easy for one of the guests to slip something into Clive's drink and his drink would have been the most preferable of all locations, seeing as alcohol was being served at the party.

Sherlock relaxed into the fabric of his chair, slowly ebbing away from consciousness and making his way into his mind palace. He'd memorized all the innocent faces of Clive's guests. The detective's brow furrowed in an expression of intense concentration, though no one was there to register the action. But, maybe, just maybe, there was a murderer hiding behind one of those placid façades.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock thrust himself out of his chair, his bare feet audibly slapping against the floor. "What's wrong? What's happened?" He scrambled for a brief moment before realizing that his caller was simply John, returning from his trek to the store.

"A bit jumpy, are we?" John teased as he lumbered through the flat's open door while toting a handful of grocery bags, their contents straining against the plastic and threatening to tumble out with each step. "That's what you get for flipping through reports instead of actually getting up off your bum and doing something."

Sherlock relaxed back into his chair and offered John a feeble grunt in response to his taunting.

"It's in the details, John." The detective reminded his flat mate.

"You can just as easily find _details_ outside!"

A smile tugged at Sherlock's chapped lips.

John Watson was a man of action, trained to react on whim, always planning out and evaluating the best choice of actions or words before he actually performed or said them. Sherlock was his polar opposite. He relied on details and information, though he didn't necessarily need to perform any methods to obtain them. He could rest idly on the couch for days at a time, all the while unraveling a mystery that had befuddled other '_great_' minds.

"You look horrid," John stated as he fell into the chair, facing Sherlock. He rubbed his temples, winded from the trip to the store.

Sherlock could tell from the creases under John's eyes and his unusually blatant tone that Imogene had failed to arrive at work this morning or even call or text the former army doctor.

"Have you gotten anywhere on the case?"

Sherlock tore his eyes away from observing John's weathered fingers fiddling with his jacket pocket. He assumed that John's phone was confined within the cloth compartment as he could see the device outlined in the fabric of his pocket before he moved his eyes to study John's weathered face.

"Did you have a row with the machine again? You look awfully tired."

"What?"

Sherlock pointed to John's shoes. "I assume that construction has finished on the end of the street. Your boots are sparkling!"

"Sherlock, do _not_ try to change the subject." John glowered at his flat mate, rendering any digressions away from the current subject futile. "What have you got on the case?"

Sherlock rose and paced the flat, finally resting his palms on the edge of his desk, his head lowered in defeat.

"You haven't got _anything_, have you?" John's surprise was painfully audible in his voice. It almost masked the low notes of disappointment.

"There's nothing there, John!" Sherlock twisted around and threw his hands in the air, shaking them in a mute surrender while his lips curled upward in a hideous snarl.

"There has to be something there, Sherlock. If anyone can solve this case, it's you, and you know it." He pointed an accusing finger toward the detective.

"I've been working all morning, going over every document, and there's hardly anything worth looking at." Sherlock admitted, ruffling through a few papers before turning around to observe John once again.

"You've only burnt yourself out." The doctor sympathized. "It'll come to you as soon as you stop searching for it."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It works."

"How would you know?"

"Don't test my patience, Sherlock." John rose out of his chair and marched over to his friend. "You need to eat and stop mulling over this case. I'm going to make you a sandwich, you're going to eat it, and then, you're going to shower and get some sleep."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

"Doctor's orders," John stated simply before waltzing away into the kitchen. The sound of the fridge being pulled open and plates clanking against one another followed closely behind.

Sherlock sat down at his desk and scribbled the few notes that he could achieve before John shoved a freshly made sandwich toward him with an authoritative expression.

The detective slunk back over to his armchair and ate, continuing to mentally examine the case with each bite. He finished the plate before his mind could make any worthwhile connections in the case and placed his dish into the already crowded sink. Without further hesitation, he headed toward his room, fingering one of his black curls to assess just how dirty his body was. He paused for a moment outside of John's room, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the doctor slouching at his desk wearing a tortured expression and staring at his closed laptop.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock questioned, expecting the doctor to call him out on acknowledging another individual's existence for once. He didn't.

"Have you heard anything from Imogene?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you." John sighed and purposefully moved out Sherlock's direct line of sight.

The detective continued on into his bathroom and stripped off his old clothes, realizing that his garments had developed a bit of a malodorous scent. He was a bit grimier than he had originally believed. He was also surprised that John hadn't mentioned it earlier. Four days without eating, sleeping, or showering. He was a doctor for goodness sake!

Shaking off the thought, Sherlock stepped into the shower and allowed the smoldering torrent of water to break over his head. He massaged a handful of shampoo into his damp curls before adding another handful of conditioner and thoroughly rinsed and repeated the routine for a good fifteen minutes. He turned off the faucet, stepping out of the steaming shower, and dried himself off. Checking his watch that he'd discarded on the granite countertop of the sink, he determined that it was too early to adopt his blue silk robe and gray undergarments. Instead, he opted for his silk purple shirt and a worn out pair of dress pants. He was just finishing lacing up his dress shoes when his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He glanced at the caller ID.

"Lestrade." He read aloud, before accepting the call and pressing his mobile phone to his ear.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice sounded a bit more grave than usual.

"Do you have something on the case?" The detective snapped straight to the point.

"Yes and no."

"What does that mean?"

"Sherlock, is John there?"

"Why?"

Lestrade sucked in an audible breath on the other side of the line, "Sherlock," he paused for a moment, as if he were searching for a better way to form his next sentence, "Imogene's dead. She's been murdered."

"Oh," Sherlock fell back against the soft cushions of the couch. The detective remembered Imogene as he first saw her, floating across the wooden boards of the flat in a flowing black dress that hugged every curve of her slim form while her twisted golden locks spilled down her back in golden cascades. "Are you sure it's her?"

"She's got John's necklace around her neck. Sherlock, they choked her with it."

Sherlock sighed, allowing his conscious to pull him back into a scene from their recent Christmas party.

_The flames, once dancing in the fireplace, were now smoldering into small embers. Molly and Mrs. Hudson had retired to their respective homes and Lestrade was gathering up his gifts and scotch._

_ Imogene and John sat together on the couch; the woman and man were nose to nose, when John glanced up at the brightly colored Christmas tree. There was a small red jewelry box hidden among the highest branches of the tree. It had been lost in the chaos of wrapping paper and Sherlock assumed that John had deliberately placed it there so that it might be overlooked in the mad scramble for gifts at the tree's base._

_ "There's one more gift left." John smiled, pressing his forehead against Imogene's golden hairline. "I think I know who it's for."_

_ "You're so cliché."_

_ "Sometimes, cliché is nice."_

_ Imogene pecked John's lips quickly before rising out of her seat and sauntering over to the Christmas tree. She plucked the small box from in between some of the tallest branches and settled back into her seat, huddled next to John. She held the package up to him as if she were expecting him to open it for her and reward her with the treasure that was contained inside._

_ He took the box carefully from her hand, and untied the small ribbon that held the lid on. _

_ Imogene's red lips turned up into a smile as John lifted out a glittering necklace with a silver pendant shaped into the form of a heart._

_ "John Watson, you are _so _cliché." She laughed._

_ He wrapped his arms around her neck and clipped the claw of the necklace shut. The chain pulled taught and ended just around her collarbones, the small heart resting in the hollow of her neck. He drew back and enveloped her in a kiss, pressing their foreheads together once more._

_ "Cliché is nice sometimes, isn't it?" he whispered with a smile._

Sherlock bowed his head, sucking in a breath. "I'll come as soon as I can."

"Alright", he paused for a moment, leaving Sherlock in an uncomfortable silence, "Would you like to tell John?"

Sherlock bit his lip, already trying to imagine how the doctor would respond. "I'll tell him. We'll be there soon."

Lestrade muttered a goodbye and ended the phone call with a click.

Sherlock sat in silence for a moment, pushing away any feeling of sentiment. After another five minutes, he rose, dreading the burden that he'd taken upon himself.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sherlock traversed his way up the creaking steps with an air of poignant despondency, suggesting that the detective may have been harboring superfluous sentiment for Imogene. He winced with each complaint of the weakening boards under his feet, knowing that each wretched creak and moan brought him closer to his destination.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he disregarded any feelings of tribulation or asperity. He reminded himself that John was familiar with the rush of grief and anger that so often accompanied death. He had witnessed several passing's, working tirelessly to save friends and complete strangers from wounds far more gruesome that asphyxiation.

Sherlock was certain, however, that John would burden himself with the colloquial feelings that came with the passing of a close friend; grief, anger, regret, doubtfulness. There was always the question of what he could have done differently, if he had only known that the last time he saw her would be the final time that he'd be able to perform any intimate action toward her. He'd never again be able to kiss her soft red lips, to caress her blushing cheeks, or to finger a loose lock of golden hair away from her radiant eyes.

_Could John have harbored the same gut-wrenching feelings of loss after Reichenbach, _Sherlock quarreled with himself as he reached John's bedroom door.

He imagined the doctor, sitting placidly in his armchair, facing his empty seat. He could almost see John's expression, the creases in his forehead deepening as his eyebrows knitted together in a demeanor of deep concentration. He'd press the weathered knuckle of a finger into his thin, pursed lips before allowing his hand to fall into his lap and set his jaw, jutting his chin outward in a desperate attempt to choke back any feelings of disdain, his throat working to clear the hard lump that had formed in his windpipe.

Sherlock inhaled a heavy breath as he imagined John studying the fabric of his chair, as if he could pluck an image of the detective from the interior of his mind and place him perfectly in the confines of his seat; as if he could simply resurrect the detective from the traces that he'd left on the surface of the furniture.

The detective rapped on the door before turning the handle and adjusting the woodwork to the point where he could insert his head into the open gap.

"John?" He found the doctor sitting at his desk, once again. His laptop was open, the silver light flooding outward from the screen and outlining the rounded edges of John's face.

"Who was on the phone?"

"Lestrade", Sherlock stated simply.

John grunted, tearing his eyes away from his computer with a feigned expression of interest, "Did he call about the case?"

"Yes," Sherlock shuffled forward into John's room, letting his fingers slip off the cool metal of the door handle as he leaned against the frame of the entryway. He cleared his throat, but still his voice came out as a mere whisper. "John."

The detective immediately bit his lip, forcing the anger in his body from allowing emotions to affect his tone into the assault on his own skin.

John's brow furrowed, his eyes searching Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, what's happened?"

"John," Sherlock's voice rose to an audible pitch this time, "Imogene's dead."

Sherlock waited in apprehension for a moment. He wasn't going to sugarcoat anything for John. He had enough respect for the doctor's frame of mind to simply come out and tell him. He didn't expect the doctor to be angry; he didn't even expect John to show any superfluous emotion at all. Sherlock knew that John was capable of sustaining a calm and clarified decency in public, even when he was hysterical with animosity on the inside. The yelling, the screaming, the throwing of dishes and pictures and any inconsequential object within range of his sweaty palms would follow later, in his own privacy.

John didn't respond for a brief moment and Sherlock feared that his friend might have failed to wrap his consciousness around the exact meaning of his words. Imogene was dead and gone and unable to be reached or held or touched ever again.

He opened his mouth, to reiterate his original words, but John beat him to it.

"How?" The word was whispered and John's voice sounded as if it were painfully constricted in his flexing throat.

"Murdered," Sherlock explained, "She was strangled."

"With what?"

"_John_."

"Tell me."

"The necklace that you gave to her on Christmas Eve."

"Oh, god," John sighed. His knuckles turned white as he grasped the edge of the desk, allowing his fingernails to cut into the aging woodwork.

"Lestrade is waiting at the morgue for us, if you'd like to see her one last time before the funeral, assuming that the family endorses one."

John sucked in a deep breath, still supporting himself on the piece of furniture in front of him. Another moment passed before he collected his coat off the back of the chair and began sliding the polarized fabric over his shoulders. "Yes, of course." He answered as he came to stand in front of Sherlock, awaiting the detective to lead them out of the flat.

Sherlock studied John's form for a brief moment longer, searching the doctor's inflexible façade and pondering just how long his emotional barrier would hold before he'd need to be alone, by himself, to grieve in silence. Was John even one of those people? Did he prefer to suffer through his loss, shouldering his burden without any outside aid from others? Or would the doctor confide in someone, anyone that would extend a helping hand or a firm shoulder to cry on?

The cab ride was spent in silence and Sherlock resisted any attempt to further investigate the boundaries of John's emotionalism. He allowed the hunched form of his friend to rest in his peripheral vision, while he chose to study the tainted leather fabric of the cab's interior, instead of the complex interior of his own friend's mind.

As the cab rolled to a stop in front of the hospital, Sherlock shuffled out and, handing the driver a handful of euros, turned with a twirl of his overcoat to wait for John to join him on the curb. After a few moments, the detective scowled. The doctor didn't slide across the stiff leather of the cab and stand, with a placid determination, on the curb. Sherlock stood alone, the harsh winds of the receding winter storms buffeting the exposed areas of his skin and enticing his hair to rise and create small goose bumps.

_He must have gone into the morgue when I wasn't looking._

Sherlock shrugged and followed John's assumed trail into the hospital.

The heavy silver doors of the morgue swung open to reveal Lestrade and Molly huddled over the body of young woman. Sherlock stifled the urge to grin. They were back to the beginning. However, this time, the body was familiar. He might go so far as to refer to Imogene as a friend.

Oddly, Imogene looked rather at peace, her body laying on the cool surface of the metal slab, her golden curls spilling off the edge and contrasting with the glittering silver of the examination table. Even from across the room, Sherlock could see a dark purple line framing her neckline where the chain of John's necklace had been pulled taut across her windpipe. He approached her body in silence, not even offering a terse nod of welcoming to either Lestrade or Molly. He extended a gloved finger to trace the bruise circling around Imogene's neck.

His brow furrowed and his head tilted ever so slightly to the side.

_Why strangle someone with his or her necklace? Unless the killer was intending to playfully pluck a heartstring, there were so many other options of objects to strangle people with; a bed sheet, the leather strip of a belt, even their own bare hands. And even if the killer meant to play a sentimental card, how could they have known that the necklace was a gift? Sherlock couldn't count on all his fingers and toes how many women he'd seen flashing sparkling expensive heart shaped pendants and heart shaped charms all over their personas. Hearts were a common symbol in this terribly sentimental society. They'd been overused throughout history, becoming as redundant as a man laying down his perfectly good coat on a puddle of distilled water on the street for a woman to trample over before continuing on her way._

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice interrupted Sherlock's intellectual escapade, "Where's John?"

Sherlock straightened himself, his determined expression twisting into one of confusion. His dazzling blue-green eyes swept the interior of the room and settled back on Lestrade without taking in any image of a grieving army doctor.

The detective opened his mouth to explain that John should have been ahead of him when the army doctor burst through the heavy doors of the morgue.

"John!" Sherlock gestured toward his advancing flat mate, "See, he's right there."

"Where is she," John demanded, his face contorted into an angry snarl. He looked like a dog, cornered and desperate for escape, teeth and claws bared and ready for a fight. "Where is she? I want to see her!" His voice broke as he abruptly shoved aside the detective and his palms slammed against the surface of the examination table. The sight of his lover, lying peacefully on the table, seemed to quall any violence that John had been expecting to ensue. His eyes swept over her body several times before he continued any movement.

His weathered hands shakily cupped her face. He pressed his forehead against hers, the unusually cold tip of her nose rubbing against his own. He longingly examined her lips, as if he intended to kiss them with as much force as he could muster.

"Why the hell didn't anyone tell me?" John's head suddenly jerked away from resting against his lover's. His eyes impaled Lestrade with an accusing glare.

"Sherlock, you didn't tell him?" Lestrade's voice rose in awe while his brow lowered in doubtfulness.

Sherlock backed away from the table. "I-", he swayed on his feet, dazed and confused.

_He had seen John in the flat. He'd informed the doctor of Imogene's passing. He had!_

"I did! I told him before we left Baker Street."

John whipped round to face him. His eyes sparkled with a very new ferocity that Sherlock had never witnessed before. "I was at the clinic, Sherlock! I was called back because one of the doctor's had called in sick and they needed help dealing with the afternoon wave of patients. You knew that!" He shook an accusing finger at his friend. "I told you that!"

"I must not have heard you. I was thinking-"

John cut him off with an oddly sadistic laugh. "No, of course you didn't hear me. Because you _never_ listen to anyone and you never let anyone help you!"

"I'm sorry, John. I swear I would have told you-"

"Would you have?"

"Excuse me?"

"Face the facts, Sherlock! _You_", John thrust a finger in Sherlock's general direction, "never tell _me_", He thrust a finger into his own chest, accenting the word, "_anything_!"

Sherlock tried to sum up a sizeable retort before John could turn on him, once more. However, he wasn't quick enough.

"No, you never tell me anything! You just assume that every individual is as smart as you and if they're not, then they must not matter! You haven't even explained Reichenbach to me, yet. No one even knows how you survived! Ha," John paced the length of the examination table, "You never tell me a damn thing!" He words were dripping with stinging venom. "You're supposed to tell me everything, Sherlock! That's what friends do!"

"I believe that called being a confidante," Sherlock spit. He wasn't used to coming under such a huge attack and in the midst of danger he was known to rely on his pretentious personality to outfox his assailant.

"No, Sherlock! That's called loyalty!" John looked as if he were winding up for another round of shouting abuse when he caught sight of Molly's petrified expression. Her shoulders were tensed to the point where they shrugged up to her ears and her eyes were wide and brimming with shock.

He backed down, pushing a callused knuckle in between his lips and assaulting the weathered appendage with his gnashing teeth.

Sherlock took a cautious breath and slowly pulled his eyes away from his friend, disregarding John's obtuse outburst and planning to nurture his hurt pride by putting an end to the wild goose chase that they had embarked on several months before. He turned to face a tight-lipped Lestrade, steering his mind away from the storm of emotions that threatened to overtake his brain and toward the case at hand.

"Lestrade," Sherlock called the detective inspector's attention toward him, "did the murderer leave any trace behind? Possibly a mark, or an ultimatum."

"Other than the bruising around the trachea, there aren't any other marks on her body. An ultimatum, however-" his sentence faded as he handed Sherlock a plastic evidence bag with a small notecard inside. Even from the distance between them, Sherlock could interpret the message as clearly as if it were branded across Imogene's forehead.

The threat was scrawled across the surface of the paper in rather admirable handwriting, Leave it alone.

"Oh", Sherlock breathed, "whoever they are they're getting tired of me playing catch up. That's the frailty of genius. It needs an audience." He let a wolfish smile slip onto his lips. "Fantastic."

He instantly regretted voicing his optimism.

The detective reeled backwards as John's knuckles made contact with his mouth. He was thrown backwards against the examination table, catching himself on the edge so as to ensure that he didn't fall. He recovered quickly enough, however, he didn't perform the action fast enough to circumvent another blow from a snarling John; this one slamming into the right side of his face and also part of his eye, the momentum of John's knuckles against Sherlock's cheekbones sent the detective's head whipping to the left, almost uprooting his stature.

Bone smacked against bone and Molly accompanied the sound with a shrill squeak.

The next blow would have surely sent Sherlock sprawling across the floor had Lestrade's arms not locked around John's upper body. His flexed biceps pinned John's flailing appendages to his sides before he thrust the former army doctor to the side and stepped between the two brawling men.

"John," Lestrade scolded the doctor in an authoritative voice, "that's it! You're coming back to Scotland Yard with me." He kept an aggressive hand on John's shoulder, lest the army man try to lunge for Sherlock with more violent intentions. "Sherlock will pack your things."

Lestrade turned to the detective, obviously knowing that Sherlock remembered their deal from Christmas Eve. The case had transpired. However, it was not Sherlock's doing. "Sherlock, go home."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by a stern look from the detective inspector.

"Go home, Sherlock. I'm not asking. I'll be over as soon as we get John settled."

Sherlock nodded in understand and held himself up, keeping a firm hand on the examination table behind him. Molly carefully skirted around his side and innocently pressed medical gauze against an open wound on his cheekbones. Sherlock hardly felt the movement, only pressing his own fingertips against the course material after Molly moved away to pull the sterile sheet respectfully over Imogene's pale expression.

On his return to the flat, Sherlock ascended the aging stairs, taking the steps one by one. His gait was sluggish enough to allow Mrs. Hudson to keep pace with him.

"Sherlock, dear," She fretted with the necklace hanging down from her shoulders, "what have I told you about slamming the door?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock uttered without turning around. "Please, forgive me."

Mrs. Hudson stopped in the middle of her advance, wondering what somber individual had replaced her usually witty and snake-tongued detective. "Are you alright, Sherlock?" She paused a moment to search her surroundings, looking for a short doctor in a green jumper who wasn't there. "Where's John?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. John's –", Sherlock paused, as if her contemplating his next word, "gone." He finished simply.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes followed her tenant up the stairs while her body stayed motionless. After a minute had passed, she retreated to her own flat.

Upstairs, Sherlock hurled a teacup across the room, screaming as it smashed against the patterned wallpaper, suffering the loss of his friend in his own privacy.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"I saw John here, in the flat, Lestrade! I know I did!"

"So, what? Are we dealing with some kind of, I don't know, _hallucinogen_, like the one from Baskerville?"

"But, that's the problem! I don't know. I don't know if I saw what I expected to see or if I was simply hallucinating. I can't trust my senses! It's always the damn senses!"

"Well, you saw John in grief after Reichenbach, I assume. Did he respond the same way, this time?"

"Hardly . . .but, that was losing his best friend to a suicide. He thought I chose to end it myself."

"And this is him losing his lover to a murder. She_ didn't_ have a choice."

"No, I assume she didn't." Sherlock rested on the couch, still toting his purple shirt, though the fabric had become damp and wrinkled from his skirmish with John. The detective's black curls were slick with perspiration, rendering his earlier shower altogether ineffectual. "It has to be the PCP. It must; it's the only solution that makes sense."

"You think both you and John are drugged?" Lestrade paced back and forth across the wooden boards, his arms bent in akimbo. The pose pushed the fabric of his coat back to the point that Sherlock could observe the glittering surface of his pistol tucked into its holster. The detective inspector ran his fingers through his graying hair. "How would it have gotten into John's system, though?"

"John's been drinking his arse off. Every time he goes out and comes back he's got alcohol on his breath."

"Okay", Lestrade fell into John's armchair with a disapproving glare from Sherlock, "but how did it get into _your_ system?"

"I tested the wine at the Christmas party. It was clear of any unknown substances." Sherlock's eyes glazed over as the gears began to churn in his mind. "The killer must have added the drug, by hand, later on. But, even then, the effects shouldn't have lasted this long, even if the dosage was large enough to impede upon my consciousness. So, that means the killer would have had to have been here, in the flat, and administered something to our food or drink recently."

"Are you saying that the killer is someone we know? They would have had to be in the room to have administered anything into your drink."

"It would have had to be someone that we let into our home willingly. Someone that we felt comfortable around."

"Are you sure that the killer couldn't have simply broken in and drugged your food or drink while you were away?"

"No", Sherlock grinned wolfishly, "This killer wants to be noticed. They want their victims to see them when they're dying. Think about it, Lestrade. They shared drinks with Denise in her flat, they went out partying with Mia the night that she died, they attended Clive's party, standing in the middle of a crowd but in plain sight at the same time!" Sherlock shook his open palms a Lestrade, his curls bouncing as an exuberant smile beamed across his thick lips. "It's brilliant."

Lestrade managed to disregard the urge to roll his eyes and instead kept a stone-like expression on his face. "So, who's been at your flat recently?"

Sherlock stalled a moment to run through the pitifully small list of people that had come to visit them. "Only John, Mrs. Hudson, and Imogene," the detective gritted his teeth in animosity. "But, none of those people are our killers! Obviously, it can't be John. Don't even get me started on Mrs. Hudson. Even if she did manage to kill someone, she'd blab about it at least five minutes later."

"And Imogene's dead." Lestrade finished Sherlock's explanation for him.

Sherlock nodded, "Yes, Imogene's dead."

An uncomfortable silence fell upon the duo. Sherlock sighed and leaned back into the cushions of the couch, holding his head in his hands. He winced as his fingers floated across the rough surface of a scab on his cheek and proceeded to bite his lip as he found a small laceration near the corner of his right eye that had yet to heal. The raw patch of skin singed upon contact with the rough pads of his fingers.

"Has John ever punched you before?" Lestrade questioned, catching sight of Sherlock exploring the little damage that John had issued to his cheek.

"Only once before," Sherlock admitted, remembering their skirmish in the back alley before confronting Miss Adler about her possession of several compromising photos, "but I asked him to hit me that time."

"You asked him to hit you?" Lestrade leaned forward, pinning Sherlock with a dubious expression.

Sherlock scoffed, "Don't give me that look. It was for a cover. Although, I'm sure John constantly fantasizes about punching me, especially on cases. Hell, I'm sure tons of people down at Scotland Yard would like to punch me."

"Yeah, sure," Lestrade leaned back in the confines of his chair," but why should John suddenly take his anger out on you now? It's not like him to flare up in public."

"It's one of the effects of PCP." Sherlock rose and plucked a file from the clutter on his desk and, after ruffling through several disorganized papers; he dropped a crumpled packet in Lestrade's lap. "Here," he pointed to a paragraph referencing the effect that PCP had on an individual's mind, "PCP has the potential to cause individuals, who are normally calm and collected in public, to completely flip personalities and become irritable and animated. That's exactly what's happening to John. It also acts as a hallucinogen and can cause hallucinations in moderate doses."

"And that's what's happening to you." Lestrade finished Sherlock's lecture for him.

The detective nodded. "We've got the murder weapon; we've had it all along. We just need the killer."

Sherlock and Lestrade suffered through another pensive silence before Sherlock finally interrupted, forcing himself to stop picking at his lip convulsively. "You should check the amount of PCP in John's system." The detective spoke quietly, as if he was afraid to break the serene reticence that had fallen amongst the pair. "Make sure it's not fatal."

Lestrade pulled himself upright with a sigh, responding to Sherlock's request with a curt nod, "Right." He made a move to stand, but a sudden hesitation caused him to sit still, his jaw working and his lips opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"What is it?"

"Just where was John the night that Denise was murdered?"

"I don't know for sure. He goes to work, usually comes home 'round three, sometimes four o'clock if he walks Imogene back to her flat."

"What about the night that Mia was killed and Stohl?"

"Lestrade, you can't possibly be implying that you think John did this. You saw how genuinely upset he was. He's practically been pulling out his hair over this case."

"He doesn't usually become distressed over triple murders. I actually began to think that he'd built up an immunity to seeing dead people."

"The man's drugged, Lestrade!" Sherlock scowled, pinning Lestrade against the back of the chair with a boggled stare.

Lestrade raised his hands defensively, nodding his head in understanding, "Alright, alright, I was erring on the side of caution."

"More like erring on the side of _stupidity_," Sherlock snarled, astonished that Lestrade would even begin to think that John could perform such malicious acts. How many times had John shown his loyalty to both Sherlock and Scotland Yard?

"I'll come back as soon as we've taken John's blood. I want a sample of yours, as well."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Being cautious," Lestrade assured him.

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, "Please, don't hurry yourself. I need time to think."

Lestrade could feel Sherlock's gaze burning a hole straight through the small of his back and into his heart as he left the flat.

Sherlock leaned back into the comfort of the couch, resting his mess of black curls on the pillow behind his head while he brought his fingers, pressed together in the stereotypical prayer fashion, up to rest on his lips. His eyes closed and his surroundings slowly distorted out of view and began to change, morphing into another familiar landscape, a landscape decorated with memories instead of foliage. What would have been a soft breeze down on earth, were instead soft whispers of important memories in Sherlock's mind palace. Every memory was full of different textures. Old and familiar faces dotted with new and yet to be memorized façades flashed past his eyes while mixtures of scents wafted past his nose, urging him to sink down into flashbacks that were irrelevant at the moment. Sherlock surged ahead, definite of his destination and determined to arrive there.

_"It'll come to you as soon as you stop looking for it."_

_ "That doesn't make any sense."_

_ "It works."_

_ "How would you know?"_

Sherlock shook his head, though no one was present to observe the movement, and the detective hardly knew that he was performing it. His expression hardened, then softened. His pupils were wild underneath his lids and, sometimes, his eyes would flick open for a brief moment before squeezing shut in aggravation.

_Imogene._

A sickly sweet laugh resonated through Sherlock's head. A red-lipped smile flashed in front of his eyes. He thought he caught a glimpse of gleaming golden curls billowing down the slim back of a woman clad in a flowing black dress.

_"So, Sherlock."_

_ Sherlock watched Imogene, as a hound would observe an unfamiliar hand offering it food. He was deciding whether to bite or accept the new presence; he was brimming with curiosity as he studied Imogene's face, another, more beautiful, façade to be filed away and memorized. He studied her painted fingernails, trimmed and filed and wrapped around the bottle of cheap white wine that she had brought with her. There was the unmistakable sound of liquid pouring into a shallow container. _

"_Tell me about this case that you're working on." Her nails made a soft 'tink' against her glass as she raised it to her lips and drank._

The memory slipped away from him and Sherlock clawed after it in frustration. His mind palace was a mess, of course. Sherlock Holmes was hardly an organized person if one couldn't already deduce that from the state of his flat.

Another memory rose to the surface, sucking Sherlock down and placing him, on his feet, on the wooden floorboards of 221 B.

_Molly was droning on about some cadaver's in the morgue. Something about a John Doe and a liver and a kidney that could be of some use if he wished to have them._

_ Sherlock nodded subconsciously, enraptured in the scene that was unfolding in the corner of his eye. He craned his neck to attempt to observe from a better angle without full on gawking._

_ John sat in his armchair; the creases in his forehead were masked with delight, while a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He rested his head on his hand, his pointer and middle finger digging into his temple while his thumb dug into his jaw and his ring and pinky fingers barely brushed the corner of his upturned lips. He looked content and this, as simple as it was, made Sherlock a bit happier as well._

_ Something tugged at Sherlock's subconscious, however, as if an unknown conscious was screaming at the detective to focus on something in the scene; something so minute and detailed that anyone, even the great detective would miss it._

Another memory overlapped the one that was presently playing in front of him. He could still see John sitting in the armchair, staring placidly at the party taking place in front of him, but the mingled voices were replaced with one, solid, baritone voice. His.

_"It's in the details, John! The details!"_

_ Sherlock focused with an admirable intensity on the scene before him._

John, something about John was important.

_A slim arm slid down the knitted sleeve of the doctor's jumper and painted fingernails laced themselves among John's bulkier fingers. The doctor smiled in recognition and kissed a pair of bright red lips. Imogene bent down and offered John a drink._

_ Imogene._

The smile that flashed before Sherlock's eyes suddenly seemed cruel. The lips weren't red. They were crimson. The golden locks of hair were too fragile to be real.

_Everything that glitters is not gold._

Sherlock's head reeled as the pieces of the puzzle slammed together in his mind. The cog in the machine had been removed. He was churning ahead at full speed.

_"How?" _His subconscious screamed at him as if it were testing him. He knew the answer. He just had to find it. He groped for another memory, another clue.

_"Brilliant."_

_ Sherlock studied John's astounded smile as the former army doctor stood in the doorway of the kitchen carrying a tray of finger sandwiches. He gaped at Imogene and sunk down into his chair after discarding the silver tray on the table in front of him. "Absolutely brilliant."_

_ Sherlock felt a pang of selfish jealousy for a brief moment._

_ "Thank you, John. I must've picked something up from all the stories that you tell in the office." Imogene smiled her sickly sweet, red-lipped smile._

Belgravia, The Woman, and a corpse that wasn't real.

_"It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."_

The corpse wasn't real. Imogene wasn't dead. But, she had no way of altering the records as Irene Adler did. She wasn't in possession of any compromising photographs or government secrets. Imogene had three murder charges waiting to be prosecuted against her and, Sherlock realized with sickening disgust, John's heart.

Sherlock was drifting out of his mind palace and into a comfortable state of REM when he felt something cold and moist slip across the skin in the crook of his arm.

He resurfaced into a state of consciousness, but kept his eyes closed and his breathing regulated for good measure.

There was a voice and a soft touch on his arm. Fingernails caressed the veins pulsing along his forearm. From the texture of them, Sherlock could tell that they were painted.

"Sherlock," A soft whisper brushed past his ear, disturbing one or two of his black curls. His name rolled of the individual's tongue with ease.

Something pricked his arm; something sharp and metallic.

_Needle,_ his subconscious warned him, _Needle!_

Sherlock thrust himself into a sitting position and grabbed the petite wrist that was prodding a syringe into a vein in his arm. He pulled the syringe out with a snarl, but hesitated as he heard a small squeak. The woman in front of him wasn't a cunning lioness. There was hardly anything regal about her and she wasn't even blonde.

This woman, instead, was a mouse; petite, frightened, and eyes staring up at him with fear.

"Molly?" Sherlock immediately let the mortician's wrist fall from his grasp. "What are you doing here?"

There was a commotion in the kitchen as Lestrade poked his head around the wooden archway to peer skeptically into the common room. "What's wrong?" There was a half eaten biscuit in his hand and small crumbs adorning his lips.

"Sorry," Molly fretted for a moment, collecting the syringe off the ground with an embarrassed grin. "I was just here to get a sample of your blood to check for traces of PCP. " She stared down at the syringe in her hand with displeasure. "I guess this is no good now. It's a good thing I always bring an extra, just in case." She carefully held out her hand to receive Sherlock's arm.

"How the heck did you get in in?" Sherlock growled angrily at Lestrade.

"I got a key from Mrs. Hudson. I knocked, but you were asleep."

"I wasn't asleep!" Sherlock still kept his arm away from Molly's impending reach. "I was thinking!"

"You were asleep." Lestrade said, looking a bit full of himself. "Now, let Molly take the sample so we can get it back to the lab."

Sherlock reluctantly placed his arm in Molly's grasp and glared at Lestrade defiantly. "Why did you bring her to come take my blood? She's a mortician!"

"You'd be surprised how many people don't want to stick a needle in you. Anderson volunteered but I thought you might punch him."

Sherlock stifled a laugh and settled for a grin before he realized that he'd practically solved the case. Before he could open his mouth, however, Lestrade threw a thick packet of papers into his lap.

"I think you'll want to read those."

"What are they?" Sherlock drew his arm away from Molly to shuffle through the several papers that had settled in his lap. There were photographs of Imogene's corpse, which Sherlock presumed was a fake, and identification documents referring to an Imogene Clarke and others referring to a Rebecca Johnson.

"Those are the results from Imogene's tests at the morgue. That corpse that we got wasn't her. It was made to look like her. The girl's name that we found strangled was named Rebecca Johnson. She went missing a few days ago. She's the same age and has similar features to Imogene."

Sherlock nodded, flipping through several pages of irrelevant documents.

"Also, Sherlock," Lestrade handed the detective another packet of papers, "there aren't any records of Imogene Clarke dating back after 2010. Imogene Clarke isn't a real person. She's a made up persona for whoever has been watching John for all these months."

Sherlock sighed and ran his fingers through his tangled curls. "God, I'm so _stupid_." Sherlock spat.

Lestrade looked onward for an explanation.

Sherlock shook his open palms at Lestrade in frustration, "Think about it, Lestrade! Some random tempest just shows up at John's clinic months ago with tons of records but no friends and no family in the area. She immediately attaches to John. He doesn't make friends that easily! He's a depressed army doctor living with an egotistic detective who jumped from a building three years ago and is supposed to be dead." He bared his teeth in anger, ignoring the sympathetic looks from Lestrade and Molly. "God, I let her walk right into the flat! I let her traipse right into our lives without any questions, without even noticing anything out of the ordinary!"

"But, why kill herself now? She was so close." Lestrade questioned.

"We let out guards down because we thought she was dead, can't you see?" Sherlock threw on his coat and started toward the door after picking up a file from the desk. "And now, she'll be going after John, if she hasn't gotten to him already."

"Sherlock, wait!" Lestrade gripped the detective by the shoulder. "How are we going to find her? We can't just wait for her to come for John. She'll just pick him off when we have our backs turned."

Sherlock scrounged around in the manila file that he'd plucked from the chaos of his desk and pulled out a photograph of a young woman with dark brown hair. "This woman," Sherlock held the photograph up for Lestrade to see, "I knew I'd seen her face somewhere."

Lestrade took the photograph from Sherlock's grasp and studied it carefully. "That's Imogene with brown hair."

"Exactly. Imogene knew she couldn't traipse around as herself with John as she had with the others. I'd recognize her eventually from the descriptions left by Mia Crowden's friends and Clive Stohl's wife. She must have dyed her hair blonde every time she was in John's sight or spent time with him."

"But, we don't know that for sure." Lestrade followed Sherlock down the creaking flight of stairs. "Sherlock, where are we going?"

"We're going to get proof!" Sherlock spun around and faced Lestrade with a suddenly serious expression on his face," I want you to tell someone to keep an eye on him wherever he is."

"Alright," Lestrade whipped out his phone and pressed it to his ear. "But, he's already being looked after by a medical team at Scotland Yard. They'd left him in my office the last time I saw him."

"I don't care. I want more people watching him." Sherlock whipped back around and headed for Lestrade's police car, but not before he took a moment to study Imogene's new face in the photograph. "She'll be going after John."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Sherlock handed Lestrade a fairly crinkled slip of paper with an address scribbled on it almost as soon as the engine of the car turned over with a low grumbling. The detective strapped himself in, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to hide his anxiety, while Molly slipped across the soft leather of the back seat and remained extremely quiet in a subservient manner that Sherlock found appealing, for once.

Lestrade accepted the piece of paper from his position in the driver's seat and studied it for the briefest of moments. "This is Clive Stohl's address." He stated in a questioning tone.

"Yes", Sherlock admired Lestrade's ability to be so glaringly obvious at times, "Clive's wife would have been able to see the woman who was strutting around as Imogene, therefore, she is able to give us an accurate description of what Imogene was like and where she may be going. It will also, possibly, give us a motive."

"We know where she's going. You said it yourself, 'She'll be going after John'. Why aren't you racing over to Scotland Yard to make sure he's perfectly safe before running off to catch a killer?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Please, Lestrade. Would you at least pretend like you know my plan? It's so much easier if you simply go along with it."

"You've got a plan?" Lestrade stared dubiously at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, while his hands made small, fleeting corrections to the wheel of the car. The detective inspector stayed silent for a moment, his jaw working in a pensive manner, before he gawked at Sherlock, "You're baiting Imogene! You're using John as bait."

"Exactly. I have no doubt that she'll go right after the former army doctor." Sherlock seemed awfully full of himself considering he'd just admitted to selling out his one and only friend to a deadly, yet seductive, psychopath. "Going anywhere near Scotland Yard, at the present moment, would possibly sway Imogene, or whoever she is, to regroup somewhere else and try to assault John again in a less secure or less predictable environment. Presently, I have her in the palm of my hand," Sherlock still toted a smug grin on his pale lips, "and I prefer to keep it that way, detective inspector."

Lestrade sighed, knowing that any attempts to combat Sherlock's annoyingly legitimate logic would be futile and, ultimately, would waist their well-thought out time. "Fine," he nodded his head with an uneasy gleam in his eye. "But, I can't be held responsible if John gets hurt."

"Of course not," Sherlock assured Lestrade as the police car bumped into the driveway of Clive Stohl's massive mansion.

The trio crowded around the entrance as Lestrade thumped three times on the stained wood of the door. His polite knocking was rewarded with several vicious snarls and barks and a sonorous chorus of thumps as a presumably large animal threw itself against the opposite side of the door.

The trio backed away, thankful for the 2-inch wooden door between their persons and the raving-mad animal howling on the inside. There was a sharp cry as someone inflicted sudden retribution upon their pet and dragged them away from the door.

"Hello," A petite woman thrust her head through the small gap between the door and the doorframe. Her smile faded as she took in the welcoming façades of Lestrade and Molly. Sherlock, albeit, was frowning. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. I'm sorry; I didn't think I'd be seeing you again. Has something happened?"

Lestrade delivered her a polite greeting and a small smile before introducing Sherlock and allowing the detective to snap straight to business. They'd been escorted into the living room and were sitting in a polite circle. Mrs. Stohl had offered to whip up a tray of cuppas for her company, but was soon advised to 'please sit, listen, and answer to the questions as best you can'.

"Are you familiar with this woman?" Sherlock laid the photograph of the woman, who had presumably been hiding behind the fake persona of Imogene, onto the table in front of him.

"Yes", Mrs. Stohl hardly glanced at the photo before an expression of recognition spread across her face, "That's Pippa Jones. My was one of my husbands clients before his passing."

"Tell me everything about her." Sherlock requested bluntly. His expression was serious; the slope of his brow threw an unappealing shadow across his eyes.

"Like I said, she was one of my husband's clients before he passed. She was also at the party that evening. She and Clive had never really been on good terms, but he knew that he would have felt guilty if he neglected to invite her that night. Her brother, Mark, was part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He, unfortunately, was shot during on of their operations, in a pretty bad place as I've come to learn. It took the other soldiers a good long while before they could pull him out and, once the got him to the medical team, he was already long gone. They couldn't do anything to save him. Pippa was heartbroken. She loved her brother." Mrs. Stohl admired the photograph with a suddenly sympathetic expression.

"What does your husband do exactly?" Sherlock inquired, though he was already managing to put the pieces together in his mind based off his surroundings and the story being fed, at an alarmingly slow rate, to him.

"He was a soldier and, after he returned from the warfront, he was able to acquire a position in a law firm that supported wounded soldiers or the families of soldiers that were killed or went missing in action."

Sherlock's mouth made a small "o" and he let out a breathy sigh. "Pippa believed that her brother died under wrongful conditions. She thought that he could have been saved if only the soldiers would have acted sooner. After his death, she confronted your husband about the case but, after months of fighting to get Pippa's file up the ladder, it was eventually laid off because of the events surrounding Mark Jones' death."

Mrs. Stohl gawked at Sherlock's quick deduction and turned to Lestrade with a thousand questions reflected in her eyes. The detective inspector issued her a small nod and laid a hand on her shoulder as if to console her that this was a regular occurrence.

"So", Sherlock stood up with a smirk, "Pippa was angry. She wanted justice. She wanted _revenge."_ Sherlock began to pace the soft carpet of the sitting room, his colleagues eyes followed his every movement, "It's no doubt that both Denise and Mia were nurses, most likely part of the same medical team that treated Mark after his untimely wound. Clive, however, was a soldier, undoubting a member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and also Pippa's lawyer. Pippa thought that Clive would give her the piece of mind that she so desperately craved. And, when he failed at the task, she was enraged. She'd get justice her own way, then. She killed off Denise and Clive with one overdose, just a simple injection of PCP into their drinks, and, after continual consumption, they were done for. But Mia and John, those individuals would have been hard. Mia because, despite her drinking habit, she hopped from bar to bar, never drinking the same alcohol as Denise and Clive did. She'd have to continually administer the drug into Mia's several different drinks at each bar without being seen. Obviously, she succeeded." Sherlock brought his fingers, pressed together until the tips of them were white, to his fast-moving lips. "And then there was John. Oh, she would have had loads of fun with John. She couldn't simply waltz in and drug his drink. John rarely drinks and, when he does participate in such activities, he limits himself to however many glasses her can handle before he becomes noticeably drunk, if he lets his consumption get the point where it impairs his thought process at all. And, of course, he lives with me, the world's greatest detective. No one can slip past me, no!"

Lestrade cleared his throat, obviously objecting to Sherlock's last statement.

Sherlock whisked around, his coat twirling behind him, and awarded him with an abhorring stare before continuing on. "That's where Imogene came along. She created Imogene as a way to slip past me and get to John. She was brilliant, absolutely brilliant. She definitely did her research."

Mrs. Stohl looked somewhat horrified and sick to her stomach. "But, how can you possibly know that she did it? How do you know that she drugged all of those people?" She twiddled her thumbs nervously and suddenly took on a perturbed expression. "This kind of evidence will hardly hold up in a court of law, Detective Inspector Lestrade, you need something more."

"Did anyone see her put something in Clive's drink?"

There was the sudden sound of footsteps pounding down the wooden steps of the stairs. A young boy appeared in the entryway, flanked by a rather immense dog. The boy's hair was shaggy and his clothes were a bit wrinkled. He seemed to stand in a rather defiant pose, however, as he exclaimed, "I saw her. I saw her put something in dad's drink."

Mrs. Stohl stood up from the couch and ran to her son, placing a pleading hand on his shoulder. "Griffin, please", she pleaded quietly with him.

"You saw him pour some kind of powder in you father's drink?" Sherlock questioned.

Griffin nodded.

"Didn't you get a testimony from him, Lestrade?"

Lestrade confirmed Sherlock's suspicion with a strong 'yes' but claimed that the initial report was turned over due to his mother's claims that they had no reason to believe him.

"Of course, no one would believe him, Lestrade!" Sherlock plucked meaningfully at his lip, "Just because he's a schizophrenic doesn't mean his information is irrelevant." The detective knelt down an inch or so to come face to face with Griffin. "Can you show me which bottle she poured something in?"

The trio was promptly led into an expansive kitchen. The boy pointed to a half empty bottle of scotch sitting abandoned on the kitchen counter.

"That one", he stated bluntly.

Sherlock immediately plucked the bottle from the counter and shove it into Lestrade's hands. "Take this back to the lab and have it tested for remnants of PCP."

"Oh, god," Mrs. Stohl suddenly gasped in shock and groped for the soft cushion of a chair. Molly was helping her into a chair and consoling her when Sherlock's phone suddenly emitted a low vibration.

Sherlock plucked the phone from his pocket and stared disconcertedly at the number on the screen.

"What's wrong?" Lestrade questioned, still holding the bottle of scotch in his arms.

"It's her." Sherlock's brow furrowed.

Lestrade couldn't decipher whether the action was performed in worry or in confusion. "Well, answer it." He demanded after Sherlock continued to stand and gawk at the screen.

"I didn't plan for this, Lestrade." Sherlock suddenly admitted. "She was supposed to be caught before she could reach John. I thought you said he was guarded!"

"He was-is!" Lestrade abruptly snatched the device from Sherlock's hand, "Just answer the damn thing!"

The detective inspector answered the call with a quiet 'click'. Silence began to grow heavy upon the room.

"Hello?" Sherlock finally spoke up, knowing that Pippa would be annoyed if she were forced to answer to anyone else. She had every bit of this planned out.

"Hello, Sherlock." The familiar voice audibly purred over the speakers, the detective's name seductively rolling off the tip of her tongue.

"Imogene," Sherlock regarded the phone with an expression of disgust, "or should I call you Pippa? Whichever you prefer."

"Oh, good. You're finally done playing catch up. I fear that I've overestimated your skills, Mr. Holmes. You made this so _easy_."

"That's her," Mrs. Stohl whispered quietly, " that's her voice."

Pippa must have heard, as there was a resonant scoffing on the other end of the line, "You even had help, you poor man. I guess I really overestimated your abilities. I'm disappointed."

"I fear that I seem to have _underestimated_ you, Miss Jones." Sherlock spoke carefully, his baritone voice rumbling each consonant with precision. "Tell me, was it really worth all the trouble?"

She laughed, "Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. I know what you're trying to do. There's no stalling me, now. I'm almost finished having my fun. After that, you can do anything you want to me. Throw me into a government hole where no one can ever see me. I could care less. But, until I'm finished, you're going to do exactly as I say."

"And if I don't?"

"I think you know what's at stake, Mr. Holmes." Pippa sneered. "But, if you really are that stupid, let me remind you."

There were several loud crackles as the phone was removed from Pippa's ear and her seductive voice was replaced by a more familiar tone.

"Sherlock", John's voice was airy and almost uncaring, as if he wasn't aware that his psychotic girlfriend was holding him hostage, "Sherlock Imogene's alive. S-she's here, Sherlock!"

The detective could almost hear the smile on his flat mate's face.

_Euphoria_, he made a mental note to himself.

"He's so loyal, isn't he? I can see why you adore him, so. He's quite attractive."

Sherlock suppressed a shiver of rage as Pippa's voice rang back through the speaker.

"What do you want, Pippa?"

"I want you to come to Scotland Yard. We're up on the roof. This is going to be the best New Year's resolution you've ever had, Sherlock Holmes."

There was a pause, as if Pippa was pondering whether or not to taunt Sherlock another time. In the end, she decided to give him one last, chilling ultimatum.

"I have to admit. You're quick, Sherlock. Just not quick enough."

The call ended with a quiet 'click' and silence fell upon the room, once again, heavier than before.

"Get me to Scotland Yard." Sherlock's voice was thoroughly calm. Lestrade and Molly seemed to stand in a daze, unsure of what to do even though Sherlock had just thrust a request upon them.

The detective calm façade shattered. "Now!" He shouted before exiting the kitchen and running out the door. He almost jumped into the passenger seat of the police car before Lestrade and Molly piled in.

The siren wailed emphatically as they weaved in and out of the New Year's traffic and sped towards Scotland Yard.

* * *

Sherlock jumped out of the vehicle and disappeared inside Scotland Yard before the police car had come to a complete and screeching stop on the blackened pavement of the street.

Lestrade twisted off his seatbelt and trailed the frantic detective inside. He caught sight of Sherlock throwing open the door to the main staircase and sprinted inside before the metallic door could slam shut.

Sherlock began to breathe hysterically as he finally found the main staircase. Before he could start his ascent, however, Lestrade grabbed a handful of his woolen trench coat and pulled him to a halt.

"Sherlock, wait for me. I'm not letting you go up there alone."

Sherlock pulled the fabric of his coat out of Lestrade's hand and ran up the stairs, taking the cement steps two at a time, with Lestrade following close behind. His trench coat billowed out behind him and the detective could hardly feel his muscles pumping or his lungs contracting as his long stride consumed stair after stair. The numbers painted on the cement walls flew by in a whir, raising Sherlock's hopes just a bit higher. Scotland Yard only had five floors and Sherlock was still taking in two steps per stride when he passed a roughly sketched number four on the cement wall.

"Sherlock, wait!" The detective had left Lestrade huffing and puffing on the third floor. The detective inspector screwed his eyes upward, trying to find Sherlock's thin frame and billowing coat, among the winding staircase. "Sherlock!"

He could hear Sherlock continuing to scale the stairs.

"Sherlock, don't you dare-" Lestrade found that he was wasting what little breathe he had as he heard Sherlock burst through the door to the roof.

* * *

The small breeze that blew through the streets of London was heightened on the roof of Scotland Yard. The sun had set long ago and only the lights of the bustling city below allowed Sherlock to clearly see John balancing on the edge of the roof.

"John!" Sherlock only managed to take a few steps toward his friend before the sound of a gun cocking behind him caused him to pause in mid-step.

_Stupid sentiment_, Sherlock scolded himself in his head.

"Amazing how fire exposes our priorities, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock frowned in disgust as Pippa stepped out from behind him. He recognized the glossy metallic gun from 221B trained on the space between his strained eyes.

"Yes, John told me about 'The Woman'." She smirked as she glanced over her shoulder, taking in the image of the former army doctor, now having stepped down from his precarious position, and beginning to drift toward their company. Pippa stepped back so that John was positioned at her side. "I guess everyone meets their _match_ sometime in their short lives." Her lips were dangerously close to John's ear and her voice caused his head to jerk up, as if her were surprised to hear it.

"Hardly," Sherlock tried desperately to keep his baritone voice from trembling, though he had just sprinted up four flights of stairs without a break for air. "I found no romantic interest in Irene Adler."

Pippa stayed silent, though she gave Sherlock a querulous look, as if she didn't completely understand what he'd just said.

"I didn't like her." Sherlock offered her a dumbed down explanation.

"But, you liked me." Imogene replied with an almost lustful tone, as if the dominatrix could hear her stating that she had drawn the famous detective's romantic eye. "Was it because I'm so clever?"

"Why'd you do it?"

"Excuse me?" Pippa had been too enraptured in John, who was beginning to squirm under her watchful eye. It wasn't hard to see that the doctor was experiencing heavy euphoria as he continued to smile and lean on the woman who was continuing to point a gun at London's greatest detective.

"Why did you target John's regiment? Why'd you kill the two nurses and the soldier?" Sherlock knew Mrs. Clive's explanation, but he was dying to hear Pippa's side of the story. "There are two sides to every story. All the people you killed had a reason that _they_ wanted to die. Denise had just lost someone, Clive was under pressure at work and home and, well, Mia Crowden was just a party animal. It wouldn't have been hard to take her down." Sherlock began to shift his weight from either side, obviously growing uncomfortable with standing dormant in one place. "But, why did _you _want them to die, Pippa?"

"You don't think we all have a reason to drink? Something that we want to be distracted from; something we want to forget?" Her voice and stature suddenly took on a tone of harshness. "You drink to distract yourself from world that's going on outside. John used to drink to forget about the war before you came along. So, I had to give him a bit of an incentive to start up, once again. A few parties to introduce the drug to him and then some terrible tragedy to force him to drown himself in alcohol, if only to forget for an hour or two, hence my sudden death. You ever figure that I have something to forget, too?"

"Mark, your brother. You couldn't stand to lose him, and now look what you've rewarded his bravery with. You've killed off his friends!"

"My brother was part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I waited years for him to come home and he never did." Pippa's lips curled up in a vicious snarl. "He got shot. But, he didn't have to. They could have saved him!" She briefly pointed the gun at John's wavering form.

"You don't think that they did all they could?" Sherlock's breath came out in desperate white swirls. "You don't know that they didn't!"

"And you don't know that they did!" Pippa slowly backed up, until John was beside her, once again. "They were a team. If one dies, they all deserve the same!"

"Your brother died defending his country!" Sherlock reasoned. "You're killing these people by turning them into addicts. You're taking away that honor!"

Pippa wasn't listening to Sherlock anymore, though. Her lips were just inches from John's ear. The doctor's eyes wondered aimlessly, taking in the sky and the stars and briefly sweeping over Sherlock's thin form, before he shut them tightly. When he opened them again, they settled on Pippa, standing beside him.

"Imogene," he breathed, a large smile spreading across his face. "You're here." He lifted his hands, as if to cradle her face, but he abruptly let them fall to his sides.

Pippa caressed John's cheek with one of her hands while keeping the gun firmly grasped in the other, her finger visibly resting on the trigger. If Sherlock were to try and intervene with anything, someone would surely die. He just couldn't deduce whom.

"You're really here."

Sherlock heard John whisper lovingly into Pippa's mess of curled hair, her locks were still dyed blonde, as she attempted to hold the doctor's attention on herself.

"No, John." Pippa combed her painted fingertips through John's short hair. "I'm not really here. I'm dead, remember?"

Both men stared at her with delirious expressions.

"But, I'm here with you." John whispered, melting like ice in her fiery grasp. "I love you."

"If you really want to be with me, John, if you really love me; you'll do me a favor." Pippa traced a finger down John's rumpled dress shirt.

Sherlock's quizzical expression suddenly turned to one of horror. All the pieces suddenly came together in his head.

"You'll jump."

John almost seemed to float to the edge of the roof as Pippa drew her victim near.

"If you jump, we can be together," Pippa brought her face in close to John's, practically breathing into the doctor's ear, "forever." She retreated only to attack John's lips with a passionate kiss, moving him into place on the ledge.

Sherlock took advantage of the distraction and covered nearly half the distance between him and the couple before Pippa trained her gun on him, once more.

"Having a bit of déjà vu, Sherlock?" Her lips curled into a smile as she registered the panic leaking into his expression.

"John!" Sherlock cried out as he watched his friend gingerly step up onto the ledge.

"Angel," John whispered as he let go of Pippa's hand. She smiled, her lips as red as blood. It seemed as if the very wind would send Sherlock's companion over the edge.

Anger suddenly flashed in Sherlock's gaze and he prepared himself to rush forward and grab John if he made the slightest move to jump. Adrenaline pounded in his ears.

The door to the roof suddenly burst open as Lestrade and several officers flooded onto the scene.

"Jump, John!" Pippa made a move toward the wavering form of the doctor, as if she might push him.

Sherlock rushed forward with Lestrade's voice ringing in his ears, calling out the detective's name.

A honed crack resounded through the chilled air but Sherlock continued to scramble towards the edge of the rooftop. If any bullet had seared through his flesh, he hadn't felt it as of yet.

The doctor spread his arms out wide as Sherlock grabbed a handful of his jacket.

For a brief moment, both men seemed to be suspended in animation. Nothing moved, no sound whisked past Sherlock's ears. Sherlock couldn't even bring himself to breath.

The detective suddenly felt his stomach drop as both he and John tipped forward.

Sherlock planted his feet against the side of the roof and tugged as the first few fireworks of the night exploded in front of his eyes. The detective instinctively recoiled, feeling his grasp slip for a moment. He fell backward and his head slammed against the paved rooftop with a sharp 'crack'. Bright colors lit up the world around him and he couldn't discern if they were fireworks or something else. He squeezed his eyes shut as his ears began to ring with a sudden intensity. His head pounded. Something hot and slick ran down the side of his face.

"John?" Sherlock sat up too quickly and the world surged and tipped in every direction. "John?!" The detective squeezed his empty hands into fists.

He could barely hear a few screams erupt from below through the harsh ringing in his ears. His body pitched backward and he fell against the rough surface of the roof. It sounded as if the entire city was screaming.

"John!" Sherlock rolled over and felt something soft beneath his body.

_Soft, sweaty texture; has to be skin. Human skin. Short waist and short legs, stocky build, male. A bit shorter than the average man. Slick material, jumper._

"John!" Sherlock wrapped his hands around the former army doctor's waist and pulled him off the ground. The pair fell against a nearby air conditioning unit and John was slack, half in and half out of Sherlock's lap while his head rested in the space between the detective's necks and shoulder. "John, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

Sherlock buried his face in the slick material of John's coat. The doctor's forehead was hot and damp against the detective's exposed neck.

John opened his mouth as if he meant to say something, however, he suddenly pitched forward. Sherlock felt something slick and hot run down the front of his purple silk shirt. He grimaced and directed John's head to a different angle.

Lestrade appeared with a medical team and, after the drawn out task of removing a vomiting John from Sherlock's iron grip, the detective inspector placed a familiar orange fabric around Sherlock shoulders. He stared at the stain on Sherlock's shirt with an expression of disgust.

Sherlock attempted to follow the medical team escorting John down from the rooftop, but was promptly pushed back against the cool metal of the air conditioning unit. Lestrade kept a firm grasp on the detective's shoulder and, in a rare instance, allowed Sherlock's sweaty mess of curls to fall against his chest.

"Pippa?" He raised his head to offer Lestrade a questioning glance.

He followed Lestrade's line of sight to a team of individuals clad in blue scrubs, lowering a blonde haired woman into the confines of a body bag. Sherlock remembered the crack during his desperate pursuit to grab John before he jumped. The world tipped, once more, and Sherlock fell back against Lestrade's chest.

"Easy, Sherlock." Lestrade's voice sounded distant even though Sherlock could feel himself leaning against the detective inspector's chest. "You've got a decent sized dent in your skull and don't even try to tell me you're not in shock."

Sherlock mumbled something and squeezed his eyes shut and soon found that he didn't have the strength to open them again.

Lestrade mumbled something inaudible to an individual nearby, his voice losing out to the constant ringing in Sherlock's ears.

Sherlock attempted, in another futile effort, to sit up once again. However, this time, he fell back against the soft texture of a gurney. Someone placed his arms so they were crossed over his heart and one or two straps wound around his slim figure to keep him in place.

"Sherlock, stay with me."

Sherlock, as always, didn't listen to Lestrade. He allowed the comfortable cloak of darkness to wash over his senses and the world faded away.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock Chapter 11

His head lay in a hollow of soft, malleable fabric. He breathed deeply, clawing his way out of unconsciousness and shifting his exhausted form under the layers of disinfected sheets that were drawn up to his chin. His brain felt fuzzy and unprepared for the new surroundings that assaulted his senses as soon as he regained consciousness.

A heart monitor beeped lazily nearby while several streams of light, albeit dim but bright enough to cause him to wince, filtered through the thin curtains of a window on the right side of the room.

His brain felt not-all-there, trapped, and shaken. Upon his attempt to reach up and feel the inflated tube of plastic that ran across his cheek and under his nose, he found that his limbs were numb and almost unresponsive. He frowned.

_Hospital room, most likely St. Bart's due to proximity and expertise. Head injury but nothing too serious. Probably a bit sore from exertion, _His brained churned out at a disgustingly sluggish rate.

He wriggled and managed to free his right arm from the confines of the sheets with a brief gasp of pain. The back of his skull buzzed with a palpable ache that stemmed down his spine and branched off at the small of his back. He gritted his teeth and forced the uncomfortable feeling into the pit of his stomach. He took a moment to assess the rest of his condition.

His thin fingers explored the numerous wires plastered to his pale skin and he sighed as the pads of his fingers brushed against the rough fabric of a bandage wound around the circumference of his head. A cart rolled by, quite quickly, in the hallway, jingling with medical instruments and other glimmering tools. Instinctively, he whipped around to observe and craft possible deductions about his present situation. The movement sent the world askew and he let out a venomous hiss of irritation.

He attempted, once more, to turn his head from side to side. However, the moment he began the movement his eyes swam and the pain that he'd forced down into the bowels of his stomach threatened to rise into his throat.

He groaned and lay slack once more, and finally resorted to counting the peppered ceiling tiles, (there were 45; 9 across and 5 down). He entertained the idea of calling a nurse but he hardly felt like dealing with an average mind at the moment; especially when his wasn't in much better shape, which made him rather cross. He gnashed his teeth and fiddled with his medical robe. He recounted the tiles, deduced which tiles were old and which has been recently replaced, and fingered the red call button on the wall nearby.

No,he decided, _still not worth the effort._

Frowning, he sighed and allowed his eyelids to slowly sink over the field of his vision.

* * *

"Brother, dear", there was the unmistakable sound of the plastic tip of an umbrella rapping against the smooth tile, "I do believe it's time you woke up."

Sherlock managed to voice an efflux of moans that sounded something like, "m'tired" and "do'wanna", followed by a gasp of pain as he shook his head from side to side.

"Sherlock", His brother's voice was smooth and collected, though his tone clearly reminded Sherlock that he could be a force to reckon with at times. Especially when they weren't on the detective's playing field.

He reluctantly pried an eye open. Mycroft lingered in the corner of his vision, the tip of his umbrella continuing to fill the room with a symphony of short taps.

"Stop that", Sherlock growled at his brother's composition. The noise ceased immediately, for once in his life. "How long was I asleep?" He asked, still staring at those damned ceiling tiles.

"You've been asleep for a full 48 hours, six of which you spent in a coma," Mycroft's eyes grazed over the bandage wound around his brother's mess of curls. "I do hope you can recall what happened before you went off and cracked that thick skull of yours."

"I assure you, I'm fine," Sherlock made a move to rise, only to flinch as Mycroft's umbrella whipped audibly through the air and applied a soft pressure to the detective's sternum, pushing him back into the confines of his bed.

"Ah, but you are forgetting something very important."

Sherlock craned his neck, quite painfully, to meet Mycroft's supercilious gaze.

"John?"

Mycroft's faithful umbrella returned to its master's side. However, Sherlock remained prostrate.

"Is he okay?"

"Dr. Watson is making a full recovery from his involuntary consumption of PCP. He actually seems a bit better off that you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You let Pippa slip right past your nose, Sherlock. I thought you'd have learned the dangers of impressing a woman the last time this happened. The last one was a simple dominatrix, this one was a serial killer, what's the next one going to be?"

"I was drugged, Mycroft. You can't possibly expect me to solve a case when I'm high, can you?"

"You've had your fair share of highs, both in and out of police work. Don't tell me Dr. Watson really succeeded in sobering you?"

Sherlock grumbled something inaudible and shifted into a more comfortable position.

Mycroft studied the tip of his umbrella with a bemused grin. "He's more loyal than I thought."

"When is he due to be released?" Sherlock questioned.

"You talk as if you were being held in a prison."

"Might as well be," Sherlock pouted audibly. "Confined to bed rest and being watched over by the doctors and nurses as well as the British government." The detective's eyes washed over his brother's form with scorn. "Is there a slot in the door for my food or will it be delivered to me by hand?"

Mycroft admired his brother's spite with a small grin and leaned on the handle of his umbrella. "John is due to be released at any time. I'm sure that he'll pop in as soon as possible for a quick chat." Mycroft's smile faded. "God knows the man will find some way to get in here. You two seem to be inseparable."

" I work better with him around." Sherlock grumbled with a roll of his eyes.

"Of course," Mycroft sighed, "What _would_ you do without him?" He said a bit too pensively for Sherlock's taste. However, the detective held his tongue.

Mycroft stayed and chatted a bit longer before leaving his brother in much-anticipated peace.

* * *

Sherlock sank down into the confines of his hospital bed and flipped idly through the television channels until the constant noise gave him a headache. He flipped the television off with a _click_ just as soon as the handle to his bedroom door jiggled and turned with an audible complaint from the hinges. He studied the hand gripping the door handle tightly.

_Larger hands, definitely belonging to a man. Tanned but not rough from work, but weathered enough to insinuate past exertion. Paper cuts from several piles of paper work. Most likely works in an office of some kind. _

His eyes lit up as he caught sight of a bandage, covering the incursion made with an IV.

_John._ Sherlock held his breath as the heart monitor began to give away the pounding tremors of his heart.

The doctor shut the door behind him with agonizing awareness, not in the stumbling fashion of a junkie as he might have done in the past few days. He turned on his heel. Their eyes grazed over one another's form; Sherlock taking in John's rumpled jumper and faded jeans while John studied the soft pattern of Sherlock's medical gown. He'd hardly ever witnessed the pale surface of Sherlock's skin as he usually donned long-sleeved shirts and, when he did encounter warmer climates, he only rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. The greatest glimpse he'd ever gotten of Sherlock's ghostly pallor happened with the sheet in Buckingham Palace and he prayed on several occasions that they would never had to repeat a blunder like that again.

The doctor straightened, butting out his chin and clearing his throat, as he found Sherlock staring him down, awaiting some kind of confrontation.

"Sherlock," John greeted with an air of hesitation, as if he wasn't sure if his presence was approved of, quite yet.

The detective nodded, welcoming John with a small inclination of his head. His eyes followed the doctor's movement with such precision that he could see the slight tremors in John's hand, a resulting factor from his army days.

"Sherlock, I-" John began, his voice breaking slightly.

"Stop it."

His brow furrowed. "I didn't even-"

"You were going to apologize. I don't want your apology and none of this, in any way, was your doing. So, just save your breath and stop before you begin."

John sighed, trying to hide the smile that was so obviously tugging at his thin lips. "I see the bump to the head didn't affect anything."

"'Course not," Sherlock smirked.

"Good. That's good," John muttered half-heartedly. He shifted his weight from side to side and advanced a bit further into the room. "How are you feeling?"

"Never better, thank you for asking."

"Liar."

"It was worth a try." Sherlock shrugged.

"Sherlock," John began, once more, after a long and pensive pause.

"John. Honestly, everything is fine."

"No," John shook his head as his tense, pale lips came to form a thin line, "No, everything is not fine. We can't keep sweeping things like this under the rug, Sherlock. It's not healthy, it's just not. . . right."

"What are you suggesting?" Sherlock questioned, though he already had at least two or three ideas about the direction that this conversation was barreling towards.

"Lestrade told me what happened in the morgue, when I punched you."

_Ah, the second conclusion, then. This would be interesting to hear._

"That's hardly relevant. You were drugged, so was I. That's the end of the story."

"No, Sherlock. I don't think I was completely out of it when I was saying-"

"You were shouting, actually."

"Shouting, yeah, _whatever_." John's brow furrowed in frustration and Sherlock made a mental note not to butt in when it wasn't his turn again. "My point is, we need to tell each other things, Sherlock. We're friends, business partners if you'd like to look at it that way. I don't want any secrets anymore. No private conversations with Mycroft, no running off to chase a killer when I'm not with you, no sneaking suspected drugged substances into my coffee."

Sherlock smothered a smirk with the pads of his fingers.

"I don't want to be your confidante." John sighed. "I just want to be your friend."

John prepared himself for a long, arduous silence or maybe even a venomous retort to come spitting about between Sherlock's lips, but nothing of the sort occurred. Instead, Sherlock allowed his hands to drop into his lap as he raised himself into a sitting position.

"Alright." The detective replied in such casualty that John thought he'd mistaken his hearing for a brief moment. Sherlock must have seen John's eyebrows raise in surprise.

"That's fine." He repeated with a bit more emphasis.

"Just like that," John tried not to gape, "You'll tell me everything?"

"Well, assuming that it's nothing too personal. Though, you've already been through my drawers and seen me half-naked in a sheet, thanks to Mycroft." Sherlock rolled his eyes in obvious spite of his older brother.

"But, what about Reichenbach? What about the places that you've been for the last three years? You'll tell me that, as well?"

"Of course. If you'd have only asked, I would have told you much sooner than this."

John's brow doubled up on itself, once more. Sherlock looked up at him apologetically.

"You promise?" He finally asked.

There was a hesitant pause before Sherlock finally nodded his head, "Promise."


End file.
